


I Say Fever

by un-shit-yourself (fenix_down)



Series: I Say Fever AU [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Brain damage mention, Canonical Character Death, Cullen/Bethany, Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff, Hospitalization mention, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Themes, Life support mention, Loss, M/M, Masturbation, Merrill/Isabela - Freeform, Oral Sex (Fantasy), Past Anders/Karl Thekla - Freeform, Piano Bar, Pining, Self-Harm, Self-Medication, Slow Burn, Songfic, Terminal illness mention, Uncle Hawke, Uncle Hawke is Best Hawke, marriage rights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5056243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenix_down/pseuds/un-shit-yourself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke spends all of his time looking after everyone but himself, and Anders has spent three years waiting for a phone call that will never come. Sometimes healing and salvation come in the form of piano bars, bouncy castles, gratuitous amounts of beer, and friends that won’t stop giving you shit because they love you. Tags will be updated as needed, this is a rough estimate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by “[I Say Fever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ga0ohgZFVqc)” by Ramona Falls. Other chapters inspired by additional songs, will be referenced as we go. Gonna throw it out there because I’m one of those people who doesn’t want to get invested in a chapter fic without knowing: this has a happy ending. It’ll be rough. It’ll be messy. You may end up hating me along the way. It’s cool, I’ll probably also hate me. But hopefully I’ll make it worth your while.

Hawke stands in front of the Hanged Man, leaning against the brick wall of the building, trying to psych himself up enough to go inside.

It was only early afternoon, so there won’t be many patrons. He knows that Varric will be behind the counter, or maybe in his normal booth in the corner that serves as a makeshift desk, with his laptop and notebooks spread all over the table. Isabela worked nights, so it’ll probably be Corff behind the bar, doing his best impersonation of one of those stone gargoyles that sit on the roof of the Chantry. Norah or Orana will be in the back preparing food for the nightly dinner crowd that come to the pub; Varric says the only reason they stay in business is because of Norah’s shepherd’s pie, and he’s probably right.

Hawke imagines the unfinished red-brick walls of the pub, the leather stools at the bar, all the old beer signs and gaudy trinkets that he and Varric have collected and put up over the years. He thinks of the old jukebox that you have to kick to make work and the dartboard that has more holes around the edges than on the target itself, no thanks to Hawke’s meager attempts to outscore Fenris. The pool table will still be there, with the same fading green felt, and the card-tables will still be propped up in the back for Wicked Grace nights, some with faded rings from pints or small burns from cigarette ashes from the old days before the city banned smoking inside.

And the stage will still be there, of course. Nothing extravagant, but enough of a showcase to display whatever talent gets presented on the weekends. Fenris’ drum set will be there, shoved in the back, and the stand for Hawke’s guitar will be next to it, along with the music stand Merrill uses to hold up sheet music for her violin. The left side of the stage will display Hawke’s piano, probably covered in a layer of dust. The right side will have Bethany’s piano, a twin of his, except hers has that small vase on it with a bouquet of pipe-cleaner flowers that Mal made for her at school, and she put them up proudly and joked about her gardening skills, and said that at least she’d be able to keep these flowers alive…

Hawke stops imagining, closing his eyes, leaning his head back against the brick and waiting for the wave of ragged emotion that wells in his chest to pass. _It’s time,_ he tells himself, _it’s time to face it now, or you never will_. It takes five deep breaths before he feels comfortable enough to stand away from the wall, and another two to open the door and enter the pub. 

Everything is exactly as he remembered, and mostly how he imagined, save that Corff isn’t behind the bar but talking to Varric at his booth. Varric notices him enter and doesn’t look at all surprised, just waves him over like it was any other day and not six months since he’s stepped foot in their pub. 

Hawke refrains from looking at the stage as he makes his way across the room.

“Hawke, good to see you,” the man says, smiling at him genuinely, and Hawke is immediately regretful for not coming by sooner. “Corff, you want to get our boy something?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Hawke says, shaking his head. “I probably won’t stay long. Just… wanted to check in, you know.”

Corff exchanges a look with Varric and stands from the booth, giving Hawke a nod and heading back to the bar. Hawke takes his place, his hands clasped together uncertainly among Varric’s spread papers. Varric looks him over and doesn’t comment on his haggard appearance, doesn’t ask if he’s been sleeping, doesn’t ask if he’s _alright_ , and that means more to Hawke than he can put into words. Varric just says, “You have no idea how much money we’re losing without you here to charm these people. You better come by this weekend.”

Hawke snorts. “Good to know the place is still in capable hands. I thought you found someone to play on Fridays?”

“I did,” Varric says, “and he’s good, real good. But he’s not you. Doesn’t have the same way with the place, still acts like a stranger. Maybe you can get him to open up.” Varric wiggles his eyebrows at him, and Hawke rolls his eyes. 

“You and Bela, honestly, there’s only so much a man can take of his friends trying to set him up on dates.” Not to say that they'd had all been terrible, but romantic companionship has been the furthest thing from his mine for almost a year.

“We just try to look out for you, because you won’t look after yourself,” Varric replies, jovially. “And if we can find someone else to ease the burden from us, well.” He shrugs, then taps something onto his laptop. “Just a sec.”

“Still keeping the city running, are you?” Hawke jokes. Varric’s laptop is always close by, whether for business or his own personal endeavors. He keeps threatening to make Hawke the subject of his next novel, to which Hawke has agreed, only on the condition that his character could turn into a dragon. Varric explained that dragons didn’t exist in the Prohibition era, and Hawke responded that he should stop making excuses. The situation was currently in a stalemate.

“Something like that. Merrill says hello, and she invites you over for lunch. I told her that it was already tea-time and she changed her invitation to fit the pace of the world around her.”

Hawke loves Merrill, and wishes that he could join her in the seemingly constructed fantasy world she lives in, where teacups don’t match and crystals have healing powers. “Can’t, picking up Mal from school today,” he says, voice neutral.

Varric looks up at him, also neutral. “How’s the kid doing?”

Hawke shrugs. “Alright. He’s got a lot of love around him.” His gaze travels to the stage, and the sight of the crafted flowers makes his chest clench uncomfortably. “He’s 5. He’ll be alright.”

“Course he will, you’re the best uncle any kid could ask for.” Varric tents his fingers and leans forward. “And how’s Curly?”

“We don’t talk,” Hawke says, snorting. “You know that.” In fact, he actively tries _not_ to talk to Cullen, if he can help it, family associations be damned. Maybe that’s a bit unfair, but that’s currently what Hawke prefers.

“Still, he’s the one caring for Mal.”

_When he’s not working and we’re not doing it for him,_ Hawke thinks, perhaps additionally unfairly, considering his mother’s eagerness to watch her only grandchild. “He’s stoic as a fucking statue, I don’t know how he is.”

“Alright, just asking,” Varric says, at the same time Hawke’s phone alarm goes off to remind him of his duties.

“I gotta go.” Hawke stands up, and Varric nods to him.

“Come on Friday? At least for a bit?”

Hawke looks at the stage. “The new guy, does he…”

“No, he sits at yours.”

He nods, oddly relieved. “Yeah, why not.”

* * *

Hawke parks near the school in his ratty 4-Runner and gets out to wait for the bell. Aveline is already out front, and she greets him with a smile. “Good to see you.”

“Hey,” Hawke responds, bracing himself for the inevitable, and when she does ask how he is, he responds that he talked to Varric and caught up with him.

“Good,” she says, and looks back towards the school as the bell rings. “I’m glad you’re getting back into things.”

“Well, I try.” Hawke shuffles his feet, glad for the distraction of trying to look for his nephew in the crowd. “How’s Donnic?”

“Good. Doing a lot of overtime lately. He could use a break.” 

Hawke listens to her complain for a bit, knowing that both her and her husband are workhorses and they would never take breaks unless forced, then spots a kid with a messy mop of dark hair and a dinosaur sweater. He waves, and the kid grins and darts over to him, trailed by a redheaded girl who heads towards Aveline.

“Uncle Hawke!” Mal yells, and Hawke leans down to accept his hug gratefully. “We learned about numbers! And I drew a picture for Grandma!” He presents it proudly, and Hawke can vaguely recognize some shapes that might be cars.

“Awesome!” Hawke says. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“Hi Hawke,” Aveline’s daughter Laurel says, shyly. She’s eight, and a sweet kid with a mean right hook when it comes to bullies that try to pick on his nephew, which means she’s already earned her stripes in his book.

“Hey chicklet,” Hawke says, winking at her. “Beat up any bad guys today?” 

“Please say no,” Aveline says, sighing. Laurel blushes and shakes her head, but Hawke high-fives her anyway.

In the car, he hears all about Mal’s day and says the correct words to keep him talking and excited. He asks how Barkspawn is, and Hawke promises to bring him by next time he picks Mal up from school. The journey to Grandma Amell’s house is uneventful, which is just the way that Hawke prefers it.

His mother asks him to stay for dinner, like she always does, and he agrees, even though being in the house still makes his head hurt, especially when he looks at the black-framed picture of Bethany on the mantle, next to her wedding portrait and the picture taken last year of all of them in the backyard of the huge Amell house. 

Everyone looks happy; Carver and Hawke have their arms around their sister, Cullen is smiling, and Mal is grinning like the energetic, problem-free kid he should be. Leandra is proud and content, everything that she deserves to feel for having such a great family. Looking at the picture, Hawke can almost see an empty space where his father would be at his mother’s side. He’d died years before, missing his (likely only) grandson, but also avoiding having to watch Bethany waste away. Hawke wonders how long the empty space for her will be noticeable. 

Leandra puts her arm on his shoulder. “Dinner’s ready,” she says quietly, and follows his gaze to the mantle. He turns and gives her a smile, because that’s what he should do, to let her know that he’s alright. She, of course, knows better, but she only squeezes his arm and goes to call Mal inside from the yard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title inspired by ["Today"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmUZ6nCFNoU) by The Smashing Pumpkins.
> 
> Hawke is "Uncle Hawke" and not "Uncle Garrett" because everyone calls him Hawke, so why wouldn't Mal? And yes, Mal stands for Malcolm. Other relationships and such will be dealt with later. This is just the prelude. Visit me on [tumblr](http://un-shit-yourself.tumblr.com) to see what else I scream about.


	2. Gimme Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke makes a request and Fenris calls him an ass, and not for the last time.

Friday afternoon has Hawke nervous, so much so that he ends up bothering himself by bouncing his leg while watching Netflix reruns of “Kitchen Nightmares,” so he takes Barkspawn for a long walk around the block to get out some energy. It’s a nice day, and he tries to enjoy the sun and fresh air, and the fact that it’s finally starting to warm up enough that he doesn’t need a hoodie when he walks outside. He takes the dog home after an hour and opens the windows in his townhouse so the breeze kicks out stale air, but he still feels antsy.

Hawke is still nervous by the time he’s walking to the tavern. It’s not that he’s been a complete recluse in the last six months; he’s seen Fenris every couple of weeks, and Isabela and Merrill have invited him over for dinner, and he’s always got the internet to communicate with Varric because the man never leaves the bar. But, this it the first Friday he’ll be back at the Hanged Man since Bethany died. Fridays were the nights they would go on stage together and take requests, Hawke switching from piano to guitar as needed, wearing the ridiculous knit Avvar hat Bethany made for him with pride while surrounded by friends and people enjoying themselves. 

Hawke hadn’t enjoyed himself in a long time; he wonders if he’ll even be able to with the piano bench on Bethany’s side of the stage empty. He resolves to only stay an hour, and then excuse himself. Varric will understand, they’ll all understand. It’ll be a start. Maybe next time he’ll stay longer. He timed it so that he’d leave right when the music started at seven. No matter how good this guy Varric hired is, he feels it’s just going to be too much to see someone else up there. Hawke knew he wasn’t ready to return and didn’t know if he ever would, and didn’t want his negativity to ruin the newcomer’s motivation.

The tavern wasn’t full, but there was a decent crowd. Hawke accepts a hug from Orana at the door, and Isabela must have been watching for him, because he heard a loud clanging from the bell above the bar. 

“Garrett Hawke, everybody!” she yells, gesturing to him, and there was a chorus of shouts, applause, and cheers (mostly from the bar patrons). It had been a ridiculous tradition that no one remembered who started, but everytime Hawke came in, someone would ring the bell and introduce him to the room like some sort of celebrity. Newcomers were always confused, and Isabela and Varric both make up grand stories in his name to explain away his infamy. 

It makes him pause, because he forgot all about it, and then he grins despite himself and waves. He feels nervous being singled out, but that quickly fades as Isabela races around the counter and flings herself at him, and then he just feels glad he came.

“Hawke! You will not _believe_ how much I’ve missed you.” She adjusts her bandana after he pats her head fondly. “Stop that.”

“I can’t help it, you’re just adorable,” he says. “Also, thanks for making me feel awkward right from the get-go.”

“I had nothing to do with that, love. You can’t spell ‘Hawke’ without ‘awk.’” She giggles to herself as Hawke rolls his eyes. “Go sit down, I’ll bring you a drink. Usual?”

“Yeah, why break tradition now?” He scans the bar and sees Varric in his usual corner, waves at a few other people that call out to him, and then finds himself with a tiny, black-haired bundle of squealing. “Hi, Merrill,” he says, patting her on the head as well.

“I’m so happy you’re here! Isabela told me and I had to come too.” She looks so excited to see him that he can’t help but feel cheerful. She bounces in her yellow galoshes and adjusts her shirt; an old White Zombie band tee bedazzled with green and pink stones in the shapes of hearts. Hawke loves her clothing and wishes he could be half as stylish.

She walks with him to Varric’s booth and they chat, or more accurately, Merrill chats while Hawke smiles and Varric types. Isabela brings him a beer and a gives Merrill a loud, wet kiss, knowing it makes her girlfriend blush furiously, then heads back to the bar with her hips swaying. Hawke grins again, everything about this seeming warm and friendly and he starts to relax a little. Fenris arrives a little later and Isabela returns on her break, and they pull some more tables and chairs together, leaving Varric in his booth next to them as they chat. He adds his commentary now and then but for the most part he’s like Hawke, just listening and enjoying the company.

Corff comes and refills their drinks, Isabela comes and goes, and it’s almost seven, but Hawke is torn. On one hand, he’s starting to get anxious again, but on the other, the thought of returning home and watching Netflix and playing videogames alone sounds depressing. Fenris notices his distress and clinks his glass against Hawke’s. “Staying for the music?” he asks, Isabela and Merrill distracted by each other. 

“Don’t know.” Hawke shrugs. “Varric says the guy’s good.” 

“He’s not terrible,” Fenris replies, in that way he has of complementing people with insults. “But if you wish to leave, we can.”

“That eager to have me beat you at Killer Instinct again?” Hawke jokes, and Fenris smirks. He’s very grateful for the exit plan, but Isabela catches on. 

“No, don’t leave! You just got here!” she cries, pouting at him. She nudges Merrill, who was busy building a pyramid out of sugar packets, and the tiny elf-like girl doesn’t even make a face when her pyramid collapses. 

“Oh, yes. You should stay,” Merrill says, nodding. “He _is_ quite good. Not like you, though, or Beth... oh.” She makes a face but Hawke waves his hand. 

“It’s alright. I’ll stay for one song. We’ll see how good he is.” Hawke shrugs and finishes his beer, and without needing to ask, Fenris takes his glass back to the bar to fetch him another.

“He’s got a lovely voice,” Merrill chirps.

“And a lovely ass,” Isabela says, grinning. Hawke rolls his eyes, about to tell her to lay off the matchmaking, when he hears a smattering of applause and turns to look at the stage.

The man is tall and slender, dressed in jeans and a navy button-down shirt. There’s the glint of an earring in one ear and light stubble on his chin. He gives a half-smile and a wave at the room, brushing a loose strand of strawberry-blond hair behind his ear, the rest tied back in a messy bun. He sets a bowl at the edge of the stage for the request slips and sits down at the piano bench, long fingers stretching, and then he leans into the microphone angled above the keys. 

“Evening,” he says casually, though he looks a little nervous, and Isabela lets out a whoop of encouragement that makes him look over and grin. His eyes meet Hawke’s, and the air freezes in Hawke’s lungs and he cannot breathe because the man is _gorgeous_ , and Hawke’s afraid that his entire head has burst into flames. Isabela cackles and he startles out of his reverie, Fenris at his shoulder handing him his beer with a raised eyebrow, and Hawke takes it gratefully, very close to dumping it over his head.

The man turns back to the piano and pauses for a moment, then starts playing. The song is “Today” by The Smashing Pumpkins and Hawke drinks half of his beer once the man starts singing because his _voice_ is like honey and he is in serious, terrible trouble. Isabela looks at him with an expression that screams, “I know, right?!” and Merrill just nods her head to the music, smiling. Fenris taps his fingers on the table in rhythm to the drumming portions of the song, he glances over to see Hawke plummeting over the edge into Serious Crush territory and nudges him with an elbow, leaning over and saying, “Stop drooling into your beer.”

“Not drooling. Partaking. Listening.” Hawke struggles with words at the best of times, but he can manage a few now, at least.

He hears Varric chime, “Drooling,” in agreement with Fenris from behind him, and he makes a rude gesture over his shoulder without looking away from the piano man. 

Varric slides over in the booth and leans in conspiratorially. “His name is Anders.”

“That’s nice.” It is nice, Hawke wants to try the name out to see how it sounds on his lips, but Varric is still right there.

“He’s single.”

“How do you… no, stop it.” He turns red and sets his glass down, glaring. “What did I say?”

Varric holds his hands up. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“This. Not helpful. Shoo.” Hawke waves him back to his computer. Isabela looks like she might comment, and so he points at her and gives her a "Look", and she winks.

The song ends, and people applaud, and Anders continues with another warm-up song. It’s not yet a normal “go-to” song by Elton John or Journey like most piano players reach for; it’s another alternative 90’s song, and this does nothing to hinder Hawke’s appreciation for Anders’ musical tastes. 

“You should make a request,” Isabela says, waving a slip of paper at him. Each table has a stack of them on Friday nights.

“I don’t know what to ask for,” Hawke says, and it’s the truth, because he doesn’t want to pick something outlandish or corny, and yet he doesn’t want to be a cliché and ask for more classic rock hits.

“Ask for his number,” the bartender replies, grinning. Hawke sighs into his drink and makes no comment.

People start providing requests, and Anders plays the expected classics and a couple more modern songs. He’s good, and he’s got an amazing voice, but Anders is shy, like he just wants to be in the background and have everyone enjoy themselves without him. Hawke frowns and picks up a piece of paper, folding it in his hands nervously until he’s tearing it into tiny pieces.

“Stop that,” Fenris growls. Hawke scoops the pieces into his hand, debating throwing them over Fenris’ head, and then drops them into his empty glass. 

“Hawke, I could make a request for you, if you want,” Merrill says, helpfully.

“Chicken-wuss,” Isabela comments. Corff waves at her gruffly from the bar and she gets up, grumbling about work ruining her fun.

Hawke thinks for a moment and then picks up a tiny pencil, scribbling onto the paper. He hands it to Merrill, who smiles and hops up, floating towards the stage in that half-skipping walk she has.

“Am I a chicken?” Hawke asks Fenris.

“That is not the animal I’d associate with you,” Fenris replies, “Definitely something larger and more hairy.”

“Like a dog?”

“More like an ass.”

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” Hawke says, sincerely. “Go get me another beer and I’ll forgive you.”

“I didn’t ask for your forgiveness,” the white-haired man replies, standing and taking Hawke’s glass and his own, “but I’ll do this for you so that I can get another on your tab.”

“You two are so cute together,” Varric says, and Hawke is about to retort, but the music hasn’t resumed from the last song ending. He looks up to see Merrill talking to Anders and handing him the paper directly instead of through the request bowl, and he puts his head in his hands and groans because he’s made a terrible mistake. Merrill is adorable and sweet, but she tends to ramble and has a habit of revealing far too much information without realizing it. His only hope is that she doesn’t make Hawke sound like a creep.

She returns and he doesn’t look up while she recites, “I talked to him and he said he loves this song and he’d love to play it for you and he’s going to play it right now. Are you feeling okay? Why is your head down?”

“I’m fine, Merrill,” Hawke says, looking up at her with a small smile. “Thank you.”

Fenris returns with a beer, and once he has it in hand, Hawke chances a look at the stage. Anders is fiddling with a tablet to pull up the correct sheet music, and in a few moments, he starts playing Hawke’s request; “Gimme Shelter” by the Rolling Stones. Again, he plays it well, he even hits the “intro crooning bit” at a lower key and Hawke grins and ignores Fenris’ snort. 

It’s a song that Hawke remembers his father singing. He had a fondness for all things musical, and the house was always full of sounds, whether played, hummed, or sang. He taught Hawke and Beth at a young age; Carver couldn’t carry a tune or a rhythm to save his life, so he just got to sit and pout and make comments about Hawke causing a “racket” and making the dog bark with his terrible voice. The songs stopped after their father died, but then Beth and he carried on the tradition here, at the Hanged Man. The realization that he’s the only one left to carry on singing is not new, but it’s still sobering, and he’s filled with an urge to return home so he can curl up on the couch with his blanket and his dog.

Anders ends the song, though, and Hawke claps along with everyone and even whistles a little for good measure because hey, why not, Anders did well. The blond announces that he needs a break, and Hawke is surprised that it’s already been an hour over the time he said he’d leave.

“I think I’m gonna head out,” he says, nonchalantly. Merrill makes a sad face and Fenris arches an eyebrow. “Thanks, though. This was good.” Hawke means it, and he does feel a lot better, despite now wanting to crawl back into his box of misery.

“You should stick around,” Varric says, in a tone that sounds conspiratorial.

“What can you possibly offer me as incentive?” Hawke asks, downing the last of his third beer.

“Bela’s dragging Blondie over right now.”

Hawke looks up, sees Isabela proudly leading an apprehensive Anders over to their table, sputters, and starts choking. Varric helpfully smacks him on the back, and Fenris rises to get Hawke another beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from ["Gimme Shelter"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJDnJ0vXUgw) by The Rolling Stones, for those interested, a good piano version can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r_91dfjztJs). 
> 
> Bit longer than expected, but this is what happens when I let characters take over a scene. Visit me on [tumblr](http://un-shit-yourself.tumblr.com) to see what else I scream about.


	3. Come Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fenris displays his eidetic memory of times Hawke’s embarrassed himself, Anders plays another request, and Hawke actually _is_ drunk enough for all this excitement.

When Isabela introduces Anders, Hawke’s face is red and his eyes are watering from nearly coughing up a lung. It’s not the best first impression Hawke can give, but it’s also not the worst. He first met Fenris by throwing up onto his shoes in middle school, and somehow, that’s turned into a dozen-year friendship. Miracles could happen.

“Sorry, inhaled beer,” Hawke says, offering his hand and trying to grin confidently. “Garrett Hawke.” He’s at the “very good” side of tipsy and is in terrible danger of saying something ridiculous, so he hopes the charm offsets whatever comes out of his mouth.

“I heard when you came in. At the bar, I mean.” The man takes the offered handshake. “Anders. Nice to meet you.” His grip is hesitant but he’s smiling. Hawke notices that his eyes are a lovely amber color and feels another coughing fit coming on, but he swallows it back.

“I’ve told him so much about you,” Isabela says, winking at him. 

“Whatever she told you, it’s a lie,” Hawke replies cheerfully, but he glances at her warily. She simply smiles and excuses herself, sliding out of the chair and giving Hawke all sorts of eyebrow wiggling as she walks towards the bar.

“It was mostly good, don’t worry.” Anders sits across from him and folds his hands. “Sorry for taking your job, though.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” Hawke waves dismissively. “I needed to take a break.” He doesn’t elaborate; he finds it's much easier that way.

Anders nods, though, and says, “I ah.. I heard. I’m sorry.” The man looks genuine when he says it, too, and his eyes flick down towards his clasped fingers. “You probably hear that a lot.”

“I do. But, thanks.” Hawke waits until Anders looks back up at him and gives him an easy shrug and a smile. “Besides, you’re good. At playing,” he amends, quickly.

The blond smiles slightly, looking bashful. “Thanks. I’m good enough, I suppose.”

Merrill stops making sugar packet constructs and turns to him, scolding like a schoolteacher. “You’ve got a lovely voice, I keep telling you.” 

“Merrill has a good ear, you should trust her judgement.” Hawke grins. 

Anders’ smile widens and Varric pipes up from the booth, “The customers don’t lie, either.”

“Ignore him, though, he’s a soulless husk fueled by profit,” Hawke responds.

“You say that like you don’t own half the place.” Varric hits him upside the head with a bundle of papers, but Hawke remains unphased. 

“I own the fun half, you own the numbers half.” 

Fenris returns with pints for himself and Hawke. He looks Anders over briefly with an arched eyebrow, then nods to him. Anders returns it, looking only mildly intimidated by Fenris' hard expression and the white tattoos that trace along all visible skin.

“Fenris, Anders; Anders, Fenris,” Hawke says, and apparently Anders is perceptive enough of Fenris’ body language to not offer a handshake. He clears his throat, trying not to stare fondly into Anders' eyes. “So. What do you do when not playing piano at a classy establishment like this?”

“I’m a nurse at the Gallows Hospital in Darktown. I work nights in the ER.” He smiles as Isabela comes back and hands him a water, and fidgets with the straw she brings with it.

“Wow,” Hawke says, impressed. “That’s… pretty brave, actually. I could never do that kind of thing.” 

Anders shrugs and sips from the glass. “I enjoy it. It’s busy and a bit insane, but it’s good being right there in the middle of it all, helping people when they need it. At least, helping when I _can_.” He doesn’t elaborate, but Hawke can imagine enough, especially with Darktown’s less-than-friendly reputation and his own experience of hospitals.

“Still, it takes a lot to do that everyday.” That statement has Isabela rolling her eyes, so he adds something more to make himself sound less blindly admiring. “I’m sure you’ve had your share of idiots, too.” Fenris snorts and Hawke glances at him, annoyed. He knows that look, that _Are you kidding me?_ look; he didn’t think he was being _that obvious_ with his appreciation for Anders - even with the amount of beer he's had - and now he’s self-conscious. “Okay, what?”

“You don’t remember?” Fenris asks, gesturing at Anders, who also looks puzzled. “I can understand _him_ not remembering every fool that hits themselves in the face, but you have the memento from it.”

“What are you talking about?” Anders looks between Fenris and Hawke, and there’s a moment of clarity. “Oh, Maker.” He puts a hand over his mouth to muffle a noise, turning pink, and Merrill is practically bouncing in excitement.

“Ooh, what happened? Is it a secret? I want to know!” she says. Isabela waves a hand in Varric’s direction and he gives a thumbs-up in response, to verify that he’s listening.

“I hate all of you,” Hawke says, and glares at Fenris. “What the hell?”

“Last year. The fire-staff. Stitches.” The white-haired man points to Hawke’s forehead, where only the faintest scar remains, then at Anders.

A wave of dawning recognition and mortification cascades over Hawke’s face. He looks at the nurse again and, yes, that’s him. He can see it now; the same eyes, the same hair, the same way he’s trying not to break out into laughter. The positive effects of Hawke's buzz are now trampled in the wake of his humiliation, but he chuckles nervously in an attempt to save face.

“Are you kidding?” Isabela screeches, and shoves Anders hard enough to make him almost fall from his chair and into Merrill. “You were the ‘hot blond nurse’ that stitched him up?”

The man is almost entirely red as he rights himself, and looks at Hawke with a smirk. “Apparently, yes. I remember you now. You kept talking about how you’re normally ‘much better with a staff.’” He doesn’t wink, but he may as well have with the speed that Hawke’s face turns hot.

Isabela might hyperventilate from laughter, and Merrill isn’t far off, giggling with her hand over her mouth. Even Varric is chuckling behind them. If the bar could catch fire or explode right now, Hawke thinks, that would be _great_. He hopes the look he gives Fenris is withering, but it probably comes across as plaintive instead. “Thanks, Fen, you’re the best.”

“Happy to help.” Fenris clinks his glass with Hawke’s and pulls out his phone, his work evidently done.

“Sorry to interrupt this amazing conversation, but Blondie, you’re due back up.” That’s it, Fenris is dethroned, and Varric is now the best friend that Hawke has. He’d hug the man, but it would require him to turn around and reach over the back of the chair, and that’s too much effort at the moment.

“Aww, just when the conversation was getting good,” Isabela says, pouting. Anders stands up with his glass of water and she takes his spot, putting her arm across Merrill’s shoulders as they shake with giggles. 

Hawke hopes his blush has diminished, and adopts a brave face. “Nice meeting you. Again.” His smile says he’s owned his shame and accepts whatever judgment Anders has for him.

“Likewise,” Anders says, grinning, and he heads back to the stage with Hawke’s eyes on the curve of his jeans.

Fenris kicks Hawke’s chair and dodges a back-handed slap to his shoulder. “Stop staring.”

“I deserve a little reward after all of that. Sweet Maker,” Hawke grumbles, and Isabela reaches over to pat him on the head consolingly. “Why would you do such a thing, Fenris? I thought we were friends.”

“It broke the ice, didn’t it?” Varric comments, fingers typing furiously on his laptop.

“I think it _melted_ the ice, actually, with how red Hawke was! You’re so cute when you blush,” Isabela says, winking.

“Hush.” Hawke looks at her girlfriend. “So, you know Anders?”

Merrill stops giggling, finally, and puts her head on Isabela’s shoulder. “Yes, he’s friends with Hari, and I told him last month that Varric was looking for a pianist and that he should come play. He was so worried about it at first, but I think it was a good idea.” She says all of this while she resumes playing with sugar packets, and Hawke switches his attention between her and the stage, where Anders is sitting down again.

“Yeah, it was a good idea,” Hawke agrees. “There should be someone here to play.” His eyes dart to the empty piano, and he sips his beer. He’s on four now; he knows he shouldn’t have another, because they’re all going to catch up to him in a few minutes and he was aiming for “easy buzz” rather than “hammered”, but it’s so easy to just keep going.

“You can come back too, you know,” Varric says. The man puts a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, gently patting it, and Hawke puts the pint glass down. “When you’re ready to, of course. I gotta say though, the idea of you two playing together has me seeing gold.”

“Don’t toy with my emotions, little man,” Hawke replies, trying desperately not to be intrigued at the prospect. It comes with it’s own share of guilt and sadness, and those emotions are much easier to focus on. Anders distracts him by playing the opening notes for “Come Together,” and his gaze shifts immediately to the stage. 

The blond seems more relaxed that during his previous set, and Hawke imagines that he’ll probably get more used to playing once he opens up a bit more, and thinks that maybe he should try to avoid any overt flirting while Anders settles into his role. He doesn’t want to seem like an idiot, after all. Then again, if Anders remembers him during that embarrassing experience at the ER, he’s probably already well aware of how idiotic Hawke can be. The drinking likely only helps his charm up to a certain point, a point that Hawke is rapidly approaching and exceeding because he didn’t eat a proper supper.

A bit of Anders’ copper-blond hair has fallen from his bun while he plays, and his eyes are half-closed as he sings, gaze fixed on his fingers as they move across the keys. His voice really _is_ nice, Hawke thinks, and his inebriated brain helpfully conjures all sorts of interesting ideas to experiment with the entire range of Anders’ vocal talents. He shifts uncomfortably in the chair as a spike of arousal shoots down his spine, imagining what Anders’ hair would feel like as his fingers ran through it, if he could encourage a noise with a brush of his lips against that golden earring. He scolds himself for his weakness and scowls when Isabela gives him a wink as Anders sings:

_Come together, right now, over me_

“So mature,” he jokes, but his scowl gives way to a smirk as Isabela blows him a kiss in response.

Hawke establishes that, somehow, he’s still not had enough alcohol to deal with the developing “hot nurse/piano player” situation. He blinks in surprise when he realizes his glass has been moved, and he gives a wary look at the empty table in front of him. “Fenris, get me another beer,” he says, turning to his friend, who idly browses his phone and ignores the rest of them.

“No.” His thumb swipes at something on the screen, expression unchanging.

“Please?”

“No.”

He pouts, and when Fenris doesn’t look up at him, Hawke rests his head on his bony shoulder. “Please?”

Fenris doesn’t flinch, because he’s used to this sort of thing. “You’re already drunk, what good would another do?”

“It’ll get me drunker?” There’s no response, and Hawke tries to squint and see what Fenris is reading. Probably something for a literature class, which means it’s probably dull and full of ponderous words. 

Bela rips off the end of a straw and blows the wrapper at him to catch his attention. “I’ll do it, you’re fun when you’re drunk.”

“No more for Hawke,” Varric says. Hawke spins around in the chair, putting his chin in his hands to give Varric his best “puppy dog” expression, which has no effect. “If you keep drinking, you’ll scare Blondie off.”

“What if I’m making it easier for him to take advantage of me?” 

“For one, that would imply that he’d want to, and two, ‘taken advantage of’ infers that you wouldn’t willingly ask for it.” Varric gives him a look over the rim of his glasses. 

“Eh, valid,” Hawke says. He tries to see what his partner is writing, but the screen has about ten items open and his vision is decently compromised. Everyone’s busy, except Hawke, who’s now well into drunk territory and in need of something to do. Spinning around, he almost hits Fenris with his arm accidentally, then does it on purpose, receiving a glare. He puts an arm around his friend’s shoulder and leans over to try and see what’s more interesting than he is, but the words are still frustratingly small.

“I can give you another scar, if you like,” Fenris grumbles. “Will that be good enough?”

“Wouldn’t like it, actually. Even if we have a nurse.” Hawke looks at Anders, who’s picking the sheet music for another request on his tablet, and when his eyes glance over to their table Hawke gives him an unrestrained grin. The blond responds with a smirk and a small wave. He’s too far away to see if Anders is blushing, but he imagines that’s the case, for his own benefit.

Fenris makes a growling noise and stands up, thrusting his phone into his jeans’ pocket. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Aww,” Hawke and Isabela both say, simultaneously. 

“There’s always next week,” Fenris says. “I’m hungry, and you need to eat before you become even more of an embarrassment.” When his friend doesn’t move, he sighs. “We can go to Bodhan’s.”

Hawke gives a cheer for his favorite diner and stands up, too fast, but he balances himself against the table and Varric’s outstretched hand on his back. “Want me to tell Anders ‘goodbye’ for you?” the man asks, smirking.

This makes Hawke pause a moment, and his brain helpfully shorts out when Anders begins playing the next song. “Um. Yes. Tell him that I had to leave because ‘pancakes,’ but I’ll be here next week.” Hawke nods to himself as if confirming this in his own mind. Why not? After all, this was surprisingly fun, and maybe he’ll be less of an idiot in front of Anders next time. 

After stumbling around the table to give Isabela and Merrill a hug and squeezing them both together while Merrill giggles, Hawke takes a last look at the piano player before being led out of the bar by Fenris’ grip on his elbow.

* * *

One large stack of pancakes and two cups of coffee later, Hawke has sobered up enough that his head is in his hands and he’s contemplating the easiest way to sell all of his belongings and become a hermit.

“It isn’t that bad,” Fenris says, trying to be reassuring while also trying not to chuckle. “At least you didn’t use any terrible lines on him.”

“No, I didn’t have to, because I’d _already used them before._ ” He leans back in the booth and pulls at his own hair, fingers twisting disheveled black strands into a further state of disarray. “He’s too attractive; I have to move. Maybe I’ll go back to Ferelden, play guitar on the corner for change, live a life on the run with my dog.”

Fenris sighs and pours more coffee for himself. “You’re going to have to break the news to your mother yourself, I refuse to have a part in it.” He purses his lips to cool it before sipping. “Or, you could do something less impulsively stupid, and ask him out.”

Hawke arches an eyebrow at his friend. “Somehow, I don’t feel like adding him to my list of dismal dating attempts.”

Fenris sighs and rolls his eyes, fixing Hawke with a look of false contempt. “So what you’re saying is that I’ll be forced to listen to you whine about it for the foreseeable future?”

“And I’ll be an endless source of mockery and embarrassment, all for your entertainment.” Hawke clinks his mug against Fenris’. “You’re welcome.”

Fenris drives Hawke home after they eat, and asks if the other man wants company for a bit. Hawke shakes his head and sends Fenris on his way; it’s not that he wouldn’t mind, but he feels like he's already taken up too much of his friend’s night. After seeing to the dog’s needs, he pisses for what feels like an hour and collapses onto the sofa, turning on the television to the movie channel that always seems to be playing the _Godfather_ trilogy. His head still swims a bit, but he’s mostly sober. Barkspawn drapes himself across Hawke’s lap and his tail thumps against the cushions as he gladly receives affection. 

It was a good night, Hawke thinks. He hasn’t had that much fun just being around people in a long time, though he feels comfortable being at home again. He thinks about what Varric said, about how he could come back and play whenever he wanted to, and he glances guiltily at the digital piano in the corner. He hasn’t touched it since Bethany died, and even before that, during the grey time while she was in and out of hospitals and chemo had offered a dangerous hope, he’d rarely played. It reminds him too much of her and the too-short life she had.

 _Don’t stop on my account,_ she’d said, the very last time she was in the hospital, so pale and stuck everywhere with needles and tubes. _I want you to still play for me when I’m gone._ Her smile was obscured by her oxygen mask. He had smiled back, automatically, because he had to be strong for her. She couldn’t know how much he was wrecked inside at the thought of playing solo for the rest of his life; it went beyond the music, because she’d always been such a bright light in his life. And now she was gone, lost to something insidious that he couldn’t have protected her from, and every time he looked toward the piano, all he felt was guilt that he couldn’t even carry on like she’d asked, because it still _hurt_ so damn much.

“Fuck,” he says aloud, rubbing his eyes. Barkspawn lifts his head and whines, softly, nuzzling against Hawke’s arm. Declaring the rest of the night a wash, he pats the dog absently and snaps his fingers, Barkspawn slinking off his lap so he can rise from the couch. 

In the bathroom upstairs he avoids looking at the mirror and reaches for the sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed, swallowing one dry and slamming the cabinet shut. Barkspawn waits in the doorway, and when Hawke falls face-first onto his bed with a grunt, he jumps up to snuggle next to him.

“Good dog,” Hawke mumbles into his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it took A MONTH to get this out, I had some writers block and personal shit going on. The next one will (hopefully) not be that delayed. I've got the outline all worked up now so there's actually a plan?! Though Maker help me if I stick to that because that's aiming for 20 goddamn chapters. D:
> 
> The "incident" referenced with Hawke at the ER is from [this ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5389412/chapters/12448367) which helped spawn this entire thing. It takes place a year before ISF.
> 
> Chapter title taken from ["Come Together"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qHGXfJKv6mU) by The Beatles, to hear the piano version that I listened to while writing this, click here. Requires Spotify, but it's free. It's the Piano Superstar version, if you want to try finding it elsewhere. I had no luck.
> 
> Visit me on [tumblr](http://un-shit-yourself.tumblr.com) to see what else I scream about.


	4. There There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke is forced to deal with his brother and receives life advice from two trusted sources.

Hawke wakes up to his phone ringing, and he desperately refuses to care. He grabs his pillow and holds it over his head until the melody stops. Barkspawn springs to life next to him, happy that his master’s shown signs of life, and excitedly pushes at Hawke with his giant paws as if to shove him out of bed.

“Bad dog!” Hawke groans from under the pillow, and the dog whines and slinks off the blankets. 

It’s morning, and Hawke hates mornings, especially when he has a headache and he’s slept in his jeans all night. He rolls over, tumbling out of bed as gracefully as possible, and heads to the bathroom while contemplating drowning himself in the shower.

Hawke finally checks his phone while waiting for the coffee-pod machine to heat up, finding four texts from Isabela, and a suspicious missed call and voicemail from Carver. He doesn’t listen to the voicemail, because if he has to deal with his brother, he wants to keep the amount of whining he has to endure to a minimum. He pulls up Isabela’s messages first.

**9:35PM Bela:**  
_\- u shouldnt have lefffffffft_

**11:05PM Bela:**  
_\- anders asked where u went and he was sad_

**8:37AM Bela:**  
_\- gm hawke anders said he wants u to touch his butt_

**9:24AM Bela:**  
_\- stop ignoring me omg :(_

Hawke stares at his phone, blinking and wondering if he’s actually awake enough to handle this. These things about Anders, they’re not true, he _knows_ this, because Isabela loves to fuck with him. Now that she has new and exciting material to use, of course she’s going to tease him relentlessly. It doesn’t stop him from picturing Anders and his shy smile in his mind, and now he regrets being too drunk to remember what his ass looks like.

**10:57AM Me:**  
_\- morning and he did not, you stop it lol_

**10:58AM Bela:**  
_\- its truuuueee :D_

**10:58AM Bela:**  
_\- mostly ;P_

**10:59AM Bela:**  
_\- u should come back next week ;)_

**10:59AM Me:**  
_\- haha maybe_

She doesn’t respond, so he sighs and types to Carver, throwing in a coffee pod and waiting the agonizing twenty seconds it takes for his mug to fill. He wonders at technology having come so far to be this convenient, and yet it’s still not good enough for human standards of patience. 

**11:02AM Me:**  
_\- just woke up what’s up_

Three chimes sound from his phone while he’s preparing his coffee and putting poptarts into the toaster, which makes him feel better about his patience levels in comparison to his brother’s.

**11:05AM The Twit Says:**  
_-It’s 11 and u just woke up?? Lazy._

**11:06AM The Twit Says:**  
_-Did u listen to my message?_

**11:08AM The Twit Says:**  
_-????_

Hawke remembers why he never texts Carver, because it makes his brain hurt that his brother is so precise about capitalization and yet refuses to spell the word “you.”

**11:09AM Me:**  
_-nope_

Hawke imagines Carver’s angry tapping and smirks around the rim of his mug. Barkspawn looks at the toaster when it pops, then up at Hawke, his eyes big.

“No, poptarts aren’t for dogs.” He wags a finger at him and burns himself trying to get the pastries out of the appliance and onto a plate. There’s another three chimes by the time he’s made it to his desk, where he’s already regretting not turning off his phone and going back to bed.

**11:09AM The Twit Says:**  
_\- Maker ur the worst why do I bother calling u._

**11:10AM The Twit Says:**  
_\- Mom wants u to come over for lunch_

**11:10AM The Twit Says:**  
_\- Also she needs oranges and powdered sugar for something, so bring them on ur way._

Hawke translates this to mean, “I was supposed to bring over oranges and powdered sugar, and forgot, so now it’s your job.” He shoves half a poptart into his mouth with a grumble.

**11:11AM Me:**  
_\- excellent job on passing the buck, i knew management was a good fit. be there in an hour_

**11:11AM The Twit Says:**  
_\- Eat a dick._

**11:12 AM Me:**  
_\- i wish_

**11:13AM The Twit Says:**  
_\- Gross._

**11:13 AM Me:**  
_\- ;)))_

There’s blessedly no further responses from Carver, and Hawke hurriedly eats his pastries so he can get dressed. Isabela’s teasing is still running through his head, as well as his own lingering embarrassment for the previous evening’s events, and he stares off into space thinking about how ridiculous he is at the produce section of the supermarket. He shouldn’t have kept drinking; it was too easy to get lost in the warmth of being surrounded by friends again for him to notice how far he’d been gone, and that didn’t help his first impression with Anders. _Or rather, the second impression,_ Hawke thinks with a cringe. 

It’s been a long time since he’d wanted to flirt with anyone beyond just being casually teasing, but his life is currently enough of a disaster, even without trying to hit on attractive men without being terrible at it; it’s probably for the best if he doesn’t pursue anything beyond joking around with the other man. It’ll be easier for everyone and it won’t involve Hawke getting embarrassed at how pathetic he is at romance.

He stands by the citrus fruit for so long, dwelling on the new phenomenon that is Anders, that a clerk comes and asks him if he needs assistance with anything. It makes him blush self-consciously, and he fumbles with a bag of oranges while muttering an apology, thankful that he wasn't in the store close to his house.

Hawke arrives at his mother’s house within an hour, his mood improved by knowing that out of all other things, Carver at least can’t complain at him for being late. His little brother grunts in response when Hawke greets him with, “Hey, dickface,” and he heads to the kitchen to drop off the bag, kissing his mother on the cheek. 

“Thank you, Garrett,” she says. She gestures towards the table, which is already set with sandwiches and salad. “Call your brother in and we’ll eat.”

Lunch passes without incident, with Carver picking at the tomatoes in his salad disdainfully while Leandra asks Hawke how he’s doing, to which he dutifully replies that he’s fine. He tells her about going to the bar, omitting the part about the attractive nurse-turned-piano player, and mentions that he might start going regularly again.

“I’m glad. It would be good for you to get out of the house, dear.” She smiles softly at him, brow furrowing when Carver snorts. “You’ll be free in two weeks for Mal’s birthday, won’t you?”

“Yeah, of course.” Hawke’s looking forward to it. He knows how much effort his mother is putting into it, and seeing his nephew happy makes him equally glad. It’ll also be Mal’s first birthday without his mother, so they’re doing everything they can to make it amazing.

Carver is done stabbing at lettuce, and looks at Hawke across the table. “How’s your job search going?”

“It’s not, thanks for asking.” Hawke manages a grin, but he knows where this is heading, and he takes another bite of sandwich so he doesn’t have to look at his brother. 

“So what, you’re just playing videogames and shit all day, living off mom’s money?”

“It’s the same money you have, little brother, don’t get high and mighty on me.” Leandra’s father had held a successful mining company, and she’d made sure her children had proper investments in place to keep them relatively comfortable. “Besides, I own half of the Hanged Man. That counts for something.”

Their mother sighs and folds her hands on the table, but Carver keeps going. “Yeah, you own part of a shitty dive bar, congrats. At least I’m earning it my own with actual work.” His fork taps against his plate. “You could be doing something with yourself. You can come back and work at the tech center, I can get you your old job again.”

Hawke makes a face and rubs at his forehead as a headache blossoms behind his eyes. This isn’t the first time this conversation has happened, and it won’t be the last as long as Hawke has no prospects or desire for employment. “I’d rather start a life of crime, or sleep in a box in Darktown, than take support calls again. I’m not doing it, you know that.”

“You aren’t doing _anything_ , what’s the difference? You’re wasting your life, Garrett, and it’s pathetic.”

“Both of you, stop this,” Leandra scolds, and Hawke resists the urge to say “Yes mother” in response. Carver huffs and gets up from the table, muttering something under his breath. Her eyes turn towards Hawke, and she gives him a pitying look that only increases his headache. “It’s alright, dear. You know he’s just looking out for you.”

“ _I’m_ the older one, that’s not his job.” Hawke’s lost his appetite for food and conversation, and he pushes back his chair. His eyes watch Leandra as she sips from her glass, expression demure and hiding the edge of fierce protectiveness. He’s grateful she doesn’t mention his failure at watching out for his sister, but then again, it’s not like he could have berated her tainted liver to cure her.

“Do you need anything, while I’m here? I promised Fenris I’d stop by this afternoon,” he lies. He doesn't care anymore if she realizes it; Carver wasn’t wrong at calling him pathetic, and he’s too tired to argue otherwise.

“No, I don’t think so. Everything has already been ordered for Mal’s party… I just wish you and your brother could get along.” Bethany was the one that kept the peace between them, and between Hawke and Cullen; it seemed like he was the variable that affected everything, and in that case, it was always best to remove himself from the equation.

“So do I,” Hawke says. He rises from the table, taking Carver’s forgotten plate with his own. Leandra accepts his parting kiss without any further commentary.

* * *

Fenris comes over a few days later with beer and takeout. After spending most of the week doing nothing, his presence reminds Hawke that life exists outside of his apartment. Unlike his brother, Fenris doesn’t say anything about the state of the dishes or why Hawke is still in pajamas. He does tell Hawke to shower, though, and since he brought dinner, it’s a simple enough request to fulfill.

As per usual, they watch a terrible alien conspiracy “documentary” on Netflix while they eat, with Fenris arguing with the narrator about how ancient Nevarran monuments were not built to be nuclear reactors, or that zoomed-in images found on the moon’s surface are not signs of an alien military presence.

“That is _not_ a cannon,” Fenris says with disgust as they show a very blurry image of a cannon-shaped lump. “It’s a fucking geological feature.”

“It looks like a dick,” Hawke replies, around a mouthful of noodles.

Fenris rolls his eyes. “You think everything is a dick.”

“Look at it and tell me that’s not a dick.”

“It’s not a dick. Or a cannon. It’s a rock formation.”

Hawke sighs and shakes his head, poking chopsticks at his food. “Speaking of dicks, Carver wants me to go back to work.”

His friend shifts on the couch so that his focus is on Hawke and not the television. “Do you want to?”

“I feel like I should do something. But, I really don’t want that job again, and Carver giving it to me just seems like a handout.”

“It doesn’t have to be that. You can do plenty of other things.”

Hawke shrugs, reaching for his beer. “I guess. I don’t know where to start.” Going to university in Ferelden had been a great experience, but his degree in liberal arts was about as average as it gets. He’d lived going from job to job, doing random things that caught his fancy and trying to make his own money instead of depending on his family’s. That left him with a variety of semi-useful skills, but nothing to really focus on. The only thing he’d wanted to focus on had been music, but he wasn’t patient enough to write his own, and doing covers in a bar was, according to all sources, not the best use of his potential. “Carver said I’m wasting my life. Not that that’s new.”

Fenris isn’t one to give him empty platitudes and pat him on the shoulder, something Hawke has been eternally grateful for these last few months. His friend runs a hand through his white hair and makes a dismissive gesture. “Fuck Carver. You’re not him, and you shouldn’t expect to find contentment in what he does. Are you happy?”

Hawke almost laughs. “No?” Fenris gives him a sideways look. “Okay, with my current ‘habits’ aside, then yeah, I was happy. But it’s just…” He searches for something he can say that doesn’t sound self-deprecating or whiney, and settles on, “It’s hard.”

“I know, Hawke.” Fenris wasn’t blood, but he was still family, and Bethany’s death had been like losing a sister, too. “I don’t expect you to be ‘back to normal,’ however normal you actually are,” he adds, rolling his eyes. 

“Always so kind to me,” Hawke says, stealing both fortune cookies.

“Perhaps you should… try something.” He deflects Hawke’s annoyed look. “I mean, don’t just flail randomly until something sticks, just try _one thing_. Pick something you’d want to do. It can be something you used to do or it can be new, It doesn’t have to be perfect or even go well, just… make an attempt.”

He doesn’t say it in a way that sounds condescending, which is probably why Hawke actually finds himself thinking it over as they watch the rest of the documentary, with noises of disgust coming from Fenris’s end of the couch. Hawke’s guitar is propped in the corner next to the piano, and he frowns, wondering how old the strings are, and if he has a spare set in his case. The cellophane wrappers for the cookies get tossed onto the floor, and he cracks open one of them, shoving it into his mouth and discarding the slip of paper inside. 

“I should play again,” he says, with immediate regret, as he’s choking on dry crumbs and reaching for his beer.

“You should,” Fenris agrees, reaching over and taking the other cookie while Hawke drinks. “I’d join you.”

It takes Hawke a few seconds. “Oh… I meant like, practicing again. You meant like... ‘play’.” On stage, in front of people; after disregarding music for months, it’s daunting. He tells himself it’s only normal stage fright, but it’s not _just_ that, and Varric’s comment about him performing with Anders doesn’t help to reassure him. Even if the other man would agree to it, it’d mean that Hawke would have yet another person dependent on him, who he would inevitably let down.

“When you’re ready, then.” Fenris looks at his fortune with a raised eyebrow and hands Hawke the broken cookie. “‘You will inherit a small province in Orlais.’”

“In bed,” Hawke adds.

Fenris snorts. “Yes, that only _increases_ the chance of such a thing happening.”

“You never know, you could seduce a nobleman, claim virginity, and kill him on your wedding night.” Hawke picks up his fortune off the floor and raises an eyebrow. “‘Patience is easy to wish for and difficult to achieve.’ In bed.”

“I’ve heard many men have similar problems, Hawke.” Fenris pats his knee consolingly.

“Maker-dammit, fuck you.” Hawke’s scowl turns into a loud, genuine laugh. “Get out of my house.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo faster update. This one was getting long, so I decided to post it. We're going back to the bar next time, promise. Title comes from [There There (The Boney King of Nowhere)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AQSLozK7aA) by Radiohead; requisite piano version can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nvyqQ6Y5Too).
> 
> Also, once the main fic gets a bit further in, I'm planning on doing some short things for each character, which I'll post in the [Encore](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5389412/chapters/12448367) fic. As always, come find me on [tumblr](http://un-shit-yourself.tumblr.com) to watch me scream in random directions.


	5. How You Like Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke throws furniture, Varric's sense of phrasing is on point, and Merrill saves Hawke from himself.

Hawke spends Wednesday practicing on his digital piano, playing old songs that he’s known for years to get back into the habit of things. He has a good ear for music, something he inherited from his father, and he can pick out melodies after one or two listens. It used to drive Bethany mad; she couldn’t keep up with him at first, and always had to have sheet music at the ready. By the time they’d gotten into their routines at the bar she’d only needed it for some of the requests that would come in. 

The musical fare for a bar piano player sticks to a few specific genres. Classic rock is the standby; no one turns down anything by Led Zeppelin or Creedence Clearwater Revival, and those songs come back easily to Hawke as he practices. Anything from the 90’s is a close second, and most music translates fairly well to piano. There’s a couple wildcard pop songs that he’s converted over, just for the effect they have on the crowd; Isabela was adamant that he figure out how to do “Sexy Back,” and she was so thrilled when he played it the first time that she tackled him afterward.

Hawke is playing so well and feeling so confident by Thursday that he skips ahead to the song that’s been his personal battle ever since he’d sworn to learn it years ago: “Through the Fire and Flames” by Dragonforce, the pinnacle of quixotic power metal. It makes him think of vanquishing foes and riding mythical beasts into battle, so it’s one of his favorites, despite Fenris calling it “garbage nerd rock.” He queues up the song on his phone and cracks his knuckles, foot bouncing in eagerness.

Three and a half minutes later, Barkspawn has retreated upstairs to avoid Hawke’s shouted cursing, the chair is across the room, and he’s on the floor texting Fenris.

**3:45PM Me:**  
_\- i’m fucking terrible i cant do it_

He remains on the carpet, staring at a crack in the ceiling, while waiting for his friend to respond. He can’t even bring himself to call down Barkspawn and apologize for startling him, because it’s better that his dog not witness him in this state.

**3:49PM Fenris:**  
_\- you can’t do what?_

**3:49PM Me:**  
_\- play anything_

**3:50PM Fenris:**  
_\- bullshit. what happened?_

**3:50PM Me:**  
_\- nothing i just practiced and i can’t fucking get anything right_

**3:51PM Fenris:**  
_\- somehow i feel you’re exaggerating_

**3:52PM Me:**  
_\- fuck you_

**3:52PM Fenris:**  
_\- it’s not as if i’ve heard you play music for the last ten years or anything_

**3:52PM Fenris:**  
_\- or know how actually good you are at it, to the point that it’s fucking ludicrous to think otherwise_

**3:53PM Me:**  
_\- whatever_

**3:53PM Fenris:**  
_\- or know how much shitty regard you hold yourself in and how unwarranted it is_

**3:53PM Fenris:**  
_\- so i don’t know why you’d ever listen to me_

Hawke sighs. He’s still frustrated, but he no longer wants to throw any additional furniture, so at least something has sunk in from Fenris’ words.

**3:54PM Me:**  
_\- sorry i stopped paying attention, was that a compliment in there somewhere_

**3:54PM Fenris:**  
_\- certainly not, what kind of person do you take me for_

**3:55PM Me:**  
_\- maybe it was okay until i tried dragonforce_

**3:55PM Fenris:**  
_\- now everything becomes clear. idiot_

**3:56PM Me:**  
_\- i still don’t know if can do it tomorrow_

**3:56PM Fenris:**  
_\- then we go and drink, and you watch your nurse with hearts in your eyes. you made no promises to anyone about it, it’s fine hawke._

He wants to retort a few things, one of them being how he’d never look at Anders that way and to shut up, but settles on _fine_. The dog comes down when he whistles, and immediately lays on his torso and licks his face, which means his apology is accepted before he even has to offer it. When he discovers that the chair isn’t broken, he finally feels better, but he doesn’t practice for the rest of the day.

* * *

After agonizing over his appearance for far too long, Hawke makes it to the pub at 6:45, and he studiously avoids looking for Anders among the people at the bar while Isabela rings the bell and announces him. He offers a short wave and a smile at the uncoordinated applause and heads towards the back, where Fenris has slid a table next to Varric’s booth, the two looking at something on Varric’s laptop.

“There he is,” his partner says, closing the screen. “Sit down and relax, you look like you ran all the way here.”

“Nah, just…” He offers a shrug instead of finishing his sentence, knowing that he can’t excuse how stressed out he must look, and Fenris slides one of the full pints over to his side of the table. “Never mind. Thanks.”

“You’re right, he’s all a-flutter over Blondie,” Varric says to Fenris, in a voice that is not at all subtle, which makes Hawke choke on his beer.

“Seriously, you wait to do that shit _until_ I’m drinking, I swear. Also, fuck you,” he says, without vehemence. 

“Maybe you just have bad timing,” Varric replies with a grin. “Also, you need to relax. You’re too high-strung for someone coming out to have a good time.”

Hawke rolls his eyes. “I’d better have a good time, then, or I’m blaming you and I’ll want a refund.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to credit your account accordingly with your own money,” Varric says, and goes back to his laptop.

Isabela comes by and ruffles his dark hair, which undoes all of his previous work to keep it in place and leaves him looking like he just rolled out of bed. “Hey sexy, you here for the show?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows.

“Not at all, you harpy, I’m here for the beer.” He frowns and runs his fingers through his hair, trying to get it settled again, and he swats at her when she reaches for it.

“Whatever you say, Hawke,” she replies with a wink.

“I have no additional ulterior motives, and you stop assuming otherwise.” He’s almost convinced himself that Anders wasn’t _that_ attractive; surely he’d just been tipsy and is exaggerating his own memory, because otherwise he’s going to panic over not sounding like an idiot when speaking to him.

“Speaking of ‘asses’, his is amazing, isn’t it?” She mimics grabby-hands. “I bet it’s pillowy.”

Fenris makes a noise that sounds like he’s having an aneurysm, and Hawke sighs, hoping he isn’t blushing. “You need to stop with that erotica jargon, it’s not doing you any favors.”

“You say that like I’m _not_ already outlining this whole situation for my next work.”

“Please no, I can’t take reading another draft of yours,” Varric grumbles. “Your prose is so purple it’s like someone beat it to death.”

“Your jealousy is so transparent,” Isabela says, tossing her braids and going back to the bar.

“Varric, I beg you…” Hawke begins, but his partner shakes his head.

“I’d never publish whatever she writes about you and Blondie, don’t worry. At least not until names and events are changed to protect the innocent.”

Hawke makes a stricken face. Fenris mutters, “‘Pillowy’?” to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

Anders’ appearance on the stage is almost a welcome distraction, until Hawke’s eyes wander down his slender frame and he realizes that his initial assessment was correct: the man really is _that_ attractive. His shirt is dark green today, and his red-blond hair is up in a bun as it was before, Anders’ fingers pulling loose strands behind his ear as he looks down at the keys. Hawke moves from panicked to nearly terrified, because it’s almost ridiculous how someone like that can exist in real life. 

“Fenris, I need you to do me a favor,” he says, clinging to his pint glass as if it were an anchor.

“I refuse to be your wingman,” the white-haired man responds, not looking up from his phone.

Hawke sighs with exasperation. “Not that, Maker.” Anders begins playing and he momentarily forgets his train of thought, until Fenris clears his throat. “Don’t let me have more than two drinks.”

Fenris glances at Hawke, then at his half-empty glass. “You’d better pace yourself, then.”

The rest of the pint lasts through Anders’ first set only by sheer force of will, with Hawke spending half the time glaring at Isabela as she makes kissy faces at him from the bar. Varric pats him on the shoulder encouragingly and says, “You’re doing good, kid,” which ends up reminding Hawke how _not drunk enough_ he is for tonight.

As Anders waves to the crowd and leaves the stage, Hawke finishes his beer and looks at the glass forlornly. Fenris puts his phone away and leans over, so that Varric doesn’t hear. “I’m ready to go up there whenever you are,” he says, and a rush of anxiety sends a chill down Hawke’s spine.

“Um, but…”

Fenris just waves a hand dismissively and takes the empty glass back to the bar, nodding to Anders as the blond approaches hesitantly. Varric waves him over, and Hawke prays that his hair doesn’t look as bad as he fears.

“Hey,” he says, and when Anders gives a soft smile in return, the chill dissipates into something much warmer, something that boosts his confidence while looking into Anders’ golden eyes. He might be able to do this without sounding idiotic. “Did you have anyone hit themselves in the face at your ER this week?”

Anders scoffs and shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no. Nothing so funny, just a lot of the normal, serious things.”

“Well, I’m willing to do it again if it’ll brighten your day,” Hawke says with a grin. 

That actually earns him a chuckle, and Hawke counts it as a success. “As a medical professional, I wouldn’t recommend it,” Anders replies. “You might injure more than just your pride.”

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.” Hawke puts a hand over his chest in a show of sincerity, and he sees Varric shake his head out of the corner of his eye. “What?”

“Could you not do anything stupid before I get you to sign everything over to me? Just for safety’s sake, you understand.” His partner doesn’t stop typing while he speaks, and it makes Hawke mildly worried that he’s documenting all this for future embarrassment. 

“Yeah, yeah. You have such faith in me, it’s really touching.”

“There’s a lot between us, Hawke, but there’s definitely no ‘touching’,” Varric responds. “Thank the ancestors for that.”

“He’s just mad because he’s not my type,” Hawke says to Anders, who looks amused at the entire conversation. Part of him desperately wants to know what Anders’ type is, and he’s thinking about asking, but Fenris returns. His friend sits down, empty-handed, and Hawke pouts.

“Corff had to tap a new keg,” Fenris responds. “It’ll be a few minutes.”

Hawke narrows his eyes, because this sounds too coincidental to be true. Isabela comes over with a glass of water for Anders, and he says, “Bela, can you get me a cider?”

“Mmm, nope. On my break, waiting for Kitten to come by,” she says, taking a seat next to Anders and leaning back in the chair, one boot crossed over her other leg. “I have a song request, though.”

“What is it?” Anders asks, but she shakes her head.

“Not for you, darling. For Hawke.” She bats her eyelashes at him, giving him a glowing smile. “Please?”

Anders looks at him with surprise. Hawke glares at Fenris, who doesn’t look apologetic in the slightest. “I never said…”

“What’s this about Hawke playing a request?” Varric chimes in, and Hawke debates hiding under the table, despite the unhygienic state of the floors. Instead, he puts his head in his hands and groans. Fenris pats him on the back consolingly.

“It slipped out, and now she’s insistent on it. You know how she gets,” Fenris says with a smirk.

“Play me that song by The Heavy,” Isabela pleads, and he can see her hands clasped together imploringly through his fingers.

“I hate all of you. Except Anders,” he clarifies, because so far the blond hasn’t said anything, but he’s looking at Hawke with interest.

“Well, it’s your choice to do it,” Anders says with a light shrug. “I mean, I don’t mind at all, but I don’t think my opinion counts for much in this case.”

“Of course it does.” Hawke lifts his head in time to see Anders give him another soft smile, and while that doesn’t lessen Hawke’s nervousness, it does give him enough bravery to say, “Alright, fine, fuck it.”

Isabela claps excitedly. Fenris gets up and walks to the stage to see to his drumset, while Hawke downs the rest of Fenris’ beer for extra encouragement. Varric sets his laptop aside and gives Hawke a thumbs-up, and Anders raises his water to him in salute.

Fenris is already behind the drumset, apparently pleased with how well it’s held up with no one using it for a few months. He doesn’t even consider using Bethany’s piano; he sits at his, and it’s familiar and odd and nerve-wracking all at the same time. The patrons are noticing the change in lineup, so he clears his throat and moves the mic over.

“So, hey,” he starts, and the Isabela whistles, and someone starts applauding, and then he’s getting actual applause and a couple cheers from the regulars for simply appearing back on stage again, and he grins, despite himself. “Yeah okay sure, give it a rest,” he says, motioning for people to calm down. “I’m only here for a few minutes while Anders takes a break. And really, you should be giving _him_ the applause because he’s doing all the work these days.” That brings on a second round of clapping, which Anders acknowledges with a small wave and the blush that Hawke has started to find totally adorable. He doesn’t know what else to say, so he just shrugs and looks to Fenris, giving him the cue to start when ready.

The song that Isabela wants is fun and soulful, and also isn’t that complex, so it’s a good song to warm up with. Hawke can hear her excited screech as Fenris’ drumming kicks up along with the melody, and he grins while he sings. He’s focused on what he’s playing, so much so that he’s not looking out at the crowd except in short glances; he can see that Merrill has joined Isabela, the two of them dancing in their chairs, and Anders is next to them, smiling and nodding along to the beat. When Hawke gets past the halfway mark, where it’s just the piano and him crooning:

_Does that make you love me, baby?_  
_Does that make you want me, baby?_

...he can hear another whistle from the crowd and he resists the urge to look out, lest he make awkward eye contact with Anders, which would be just his kind of luck.

After the song ends, Hawke grins at the applause, letting all of that appreciation and enthusiasm remind him that this was what he’d loved doing and how much he’d missed it. He catches Fenris’ eye above the drums and moves aside the mic to yell the next song he wants, just like old times. He knows that he needs to let Anders back on, but he can’t resist one more.

It’s the same brand of rock music and another song that he loved playing, and someone who isn’t Isabela lets out a cheer of encouragement. Like most of the covers he plays, he swaps the female affections out to suit his personal tastes, simply because he _can_ , and he glances over at the table where his friends sit when he sings:

_No matter where, no matter where I'll be_  
_I'm lookin' for a lover that'll satisfy me_

Isabela gives another raucous shout while Merrill claps her hands to the beat. Varric is leaning over to Anders, but Hawke doesn’t have time to worry about what’s being said, and ignores it.

Hawke is feeling better than he has in a long time by the time the second song ends, having lost himself in the music and relishing everyone’s appreciation for it, and he wants to leave on a high note before he messes something up. He stands up to the applause and makes a grand bow, gestures to Fenris in thanks, stops himself from glancing over at the empty piano opposite his, and hops off the stage.

Isabela and Merrill hug him enthusiastically while screeching praise, and the former dances back to the bar, giddy. When he sits down, Varric says, “You did good, kid. I knew it hadn’t left you.”

“Nah, it’s like riding a bike, or some other similar analogy thing,” Hawke says with a grin. He chances a look at Anders, and the smile on his face is enough of a reward to last the week. “How’d I do?” he asks, trying to be charming instead of begging for praise.

“I loved it! It was amazing, you and Fenris did very well and Bela was so happy,” Merrill interjects. Hawke winks at her, but his focus returns to Anders immediately.

“You were great,” Anders replies earnestly. “Both of you were. You’ve got a lot of passion when you sing.” He flips loose hair behind his ear, and Hawke breaks eye contact to watch the action, because he’s still fascinated by the shade of it and the way Anders’ earring catches the light with the movement. There’s a nervous laugh, and Hawke meets Anders’ eyes again in time to see them dart downward to the table. “I just hope I still have a job now,” he jokes.

Hawke makes an incredulous noise and says, “Of course you do. That was just…” he waves a hand dismissively towards the stage, and almost hits Fenris, “...it was just practice, don’t worry.” Fenris sits next to him with a snort of amusement, and Anders looks relieved.

“Or you could both stop the foreplay and team up together,” Varric says, and raises an eyebrow at Hawke’s bewildered expression. “Don’t give me that, you’re both good at it. I see no problem with this.” Hawke’s thankful that he doesn’t add on the obvious fact that there are already _two_ pianos in the bar.

Anders looks between him and Varric, and hesitantly offers, “Well, I wouldn’t mind it, but…” 

Hawke doesn't want to have this conversation yet, if ever, and the word “foreplay” keeps ricocheting around in his brain and evoking images that he shouldn’t be having in public. “First, your phrasing needs some work, and second, I don’t want to make decisions right now,” he pleads. “I just really need a drink.” He gives Anders an apologetic look, hoping that the man doesn’t take his rejection of the idea personally. 

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long for his beer, as Isabela returns with the one he was promised before going up on stage. She settles down beside Merrill as Anders heads up to play for another set. Isabela keeps throwing pieces of napkin at him to distract him from staring, while Fenris just ignores Hawke’s pining in favor of his phone. Whatever Hawke did to liven the place up still remains in the atmosphere, because the blond looks more comfortable as he plays, and every time he smiles Hawke’s heart beats a little faster. Hawke contemplates Varric’s offer; it would be a welcome distraction to play at the bar again, but the thought of keeping up with Anders is stressful, and while he recognizes the foolishness of the idea, sitting at Bethany’s piano has too much finality.

When Anders’ second set is over, he and the other patrons applaud, and Varric gives him a pointed look. “I promise nothing,” Hawke grumbles to him, but that’s promise enough, in a way, so Varric smirks and returns to his computer.

“Your nephew’s birthday is next week, right?” he asks while he types. “I’ll have something sent over.”

“You don’t need to do that, Varric,” Hawke says futilely. He taps his fingers on the table while he watches Anders walk over out of the corner of his eye, wondering if it’s now his destiny to be a creep and ogle the man whenever he can get a chance.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be extravagant,” Varric reassures him. “Kids need some toys that will annoy their parents, right?”

“Absolutely, yes.” The thought of Cullen having to deal with something loud and obnoxious makes him grin, and Hawke nudges Fenris, who growls in response. “Are you going?”

“I might come by in the evening, after I finish some work.” Fenris hates large parties, and Hawke can’t blame him if he wants to bow out and avoid a gaggle of small children.

Hawke turns to Merrill, who’s sitting in Isabela’s lap. “You’ll both be there?”

“I refuse to babysit,” Isabela replies, patting Merrill’s leg affectionately. 

“Nah, we’ll be drinking while the kids run around with my mother, there will be plenty of adults running around to do the babysitting. I’m only in it for the bouncy castle,” he says with a grin. 

Anders catches the last half of the conversation as he sits down, and smirks at Hawke. “It sounds like you’ll have some competition for it.”

“That’s why we drink while the kids wear themselves out, then take over afterward.” He gives a sage nod, tapping his forehead. “I’ve got it all planned out.”

“Do your plans usually work better when they don’t involve handling staves?” Anders’ eyes gleam with amusement.

Hawke’s so smug that he doesn’t even mind Isabela and Merrill laughing at his expense. “Usually, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try to do it my way,” he replies with a wink, and he mentally congratulates himself while Anders turns pink. 

The blond glances to Hawke’s side at Fenris, who says, “Don’t look at me, I can’t help the nonsense he says,” without looking up from his screen. 

“Ah,” Anders responds, and he frowns, not offering any more commentary. 

Hawke attempts to save the conversation, and before he can check himself, he says, “Hey, you should come to my nephew’s birthday party next Saturday.” 

Anders blinks at him in surprise, and Fenris sighs quietly, but he continues with determination. “I mean, it’s like I said, drinking and then a bouncy castle, it’s just a fun time. But it’s at three, so if you’re working or something, or it doesn’t sound good, that’s fine too.” 

He’s faltering in his confidence at the invitation, and surprisingly, Merrill is the one to rescue him.

“Hari will be there,” she says cheerfully to Anders, “I let her know, because she’s always talking about how Tamlen needs more friends his age, so I thought it would be good for her to bring him. So you’ll know her and me, and you already know Hawke, so you should come!”

Hawke is going to hug her, right after he offers a belated invitation to Merrill and Anders’ friend, because if that’s what it takes, he’s all for it. “It’s up to you,” he says with a shrug.

Anders bites his lip, and that’s something that Hawke wants to burn into his mind for future reference. “I… could go, if you wanted. I’d have to arrange a ride, and leave for work since I do the seven-to-seven overnight shift.”

“Yeah, cool, that’s no problem,” Hawke says, hoping his utter relief doesn’t show too openly. Fenris sighs again, and Hawke kicks his chair. “And my grumpy best friend won’t be there, so everyone will have a great time.”

Anders pauses, looking between the two of them, then laughs a little. “Ah, your ‘friend.’ I’m sorry, I thought you two were…” He waves a hand, and Merrill giggles while Fenris looks up at Anders with a scowl.

“No, we aren’t,” he snaps.

Hawke is laughing, not only at the implication, but because he feels like an idiot for giving Anders that impression. “Fenris is… Maker. No. Fenris isn’t my type.” He pats the white-haired man on the shoulder, and Fenris makes a disgusted noise. “I prefer men with a sense of humor.”

“And blonds,” Isabela helpfully adds, and then it’s Hawke’s turn to blush, though he’s not as embarrassed when Anders follows suit. Merrill’s giggling reaches new heights, and Fenris huffs loudly, heading to the bar for another drink, apparently done with the lot of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo another one. Next chapter is Anders POV, and a bit less light-hearted... 
> 
> Chapter title and the song that Hawke first plays is The Heavy's ["How You Like Me Now."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVzvRsl4rEM) The second song is The Sonic's ["Have Love, Will Travel."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20S_kwNb4rg)
> 
> I find that while I really like the idea behind this and I like things I have planned, I'm sort of mildly terrified of posting additional chapters because I'm of the opinion that it sucks?? Now that it's progressing though, I think that feeling will eventually go away. Hopefully. So any sort of encouragement in the form of a comment would be stellar. Unless it does actually suck, in which case, I guess you can fight me. I need to keep up appearances.
> 
> Visit me on [tumblr](http://un-shit-yourself.tumblr.com) to see what else I scream about.


	6. Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders loses himself in the routine, demonstrates magpie tendencies, and consults his voice of reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the tags. When I started, I had sort of added everything I thought I'd need, and now that there's a more concise plot, these should be good until Things start happening.

The normal playing set for Fridays only lasts a few hours, and Anders usually leaves around ten-thirty to avoid heading back to Darktown too late. But he loses track of time talking to Hawke and the others, the conversation coming easier as he gets more comfortable around them, until suddenly he looks at his phone and discovers that it’s midnight. Thankfully, his bus will still be running, and the walk from the stop to his apartment isn’t long, but the thought of walking alone at night in Darktown still pricks worry in his chest.

He frowns and slides his phone into his pocket, waiting for Isabela to finish some ridiculous story involving her cleavage and a tube of lipstick so as not to interrupt. Hawke, though, catches something of Anders’ impatience in his body language, and he throws Anders an inquisitive look, speaking up as soon as Isabela is done laughing.

“You alright?” he asks, but it’s not loud enough to carry to the others.

“I just realized how late it is, that’s all. I should be going.” Anders gives him a small, apologetic smile.

Hawke pulls out his own phone and blinks at the display. “Shit. Guess time does fly when you’re having fun,” he jokes.

“Told you so,” Varric says to Hawke over his laptop screen. Anders continues to be amazed that the man never seems to move from his booth, and wonders if he actually lives above the bar, or if it’s just a story to hide the fact that he’s actually just grown into the decor. 

Hawke seems to be having a silent conversation with Fenris, by the look of their facial expressions, and Anders decides not to interrupt it. He rises from the chair, and Isabela gives him a pouting look.

“But you’re up all night anyway, aren’t you?” she asks.

“I am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have things to do,” Anders replies with a shrug. He doesn’t mention his need for some air, or for some time alone to finally be able to let his guard down. “I’ll be back next week, don’t worry.”

Hawke stands up and seems to clench the back of the chair for support. “I should probably head out, too,” he says, and Anders desperately keeps a sudden, nervous laugh stifled at the thought of spending time alone with the man. _It’s fine, Hawke’s being polite because it’s late, the bus will come soon, it’s fine,_ he repeats to himself, and heads to the door with Hawke following behind him.

It’s a bit chilly yet in the evenings, and Anders regrets not bringing a jacket. He tries not to let his mild discomfort show, and tries to think of something to say to Hawke as they linger in front of the Hanged Man. His ability to read people has diminished over the years, but he can see Hawke fidgeting with his hands in his jacket pockets. 

Since it appears they’re both awkwardly waiting for something to say, Anders settles with, “Next week, then?”

“Yeah, probably,” Hawke replies, and Anders is jealous of his easy grin. “I should have let you know about playing tonight. Fenris and I had talked about it, but it was your night, and I shouldn’t have stepped in.”

“Oh, no, it was fine,” Anders says, waving a hand. “I’m just here as your replacement, remember?”

Hawke shakes his head. “Nah, not at all. I mean… there _are_ two pianos up there. And I have my guitar.” He runs a hand through his dark, disheveled hair. “So, you know. There's always room for you, too.”

Anders can tell that Hawke has reservations about the both of them playing together, that much is obvious, and regardless of Varric’s attempts to push them in that direction, Anders has already resolved not to bring it up. There’s too much history in this place with Hawke and his sister, and he already feels like he’s intruding into Hawke’s territory, as ridiculous as he knows that is. Besides, Hawke has talent and stage presence; he’s known and liked by the regulars that come in every Friday, and Anders doesn’t think he can compete with that.

“I appreciate that,” Anders replies, which isn’t far from the truth. He appreciates Hawke’s consideration. The man’s been nothing but friendly to him so far, and the other four members of Hawke’s group of friends have also been nice. Everything is so _nice_ that Anders is automatically on edge, waiting for something to change. He knows there’s always a catch, and he wonders when he’s going to say or do something to mess up the way things are coming together.

But all he gets in response is another crooked smile from Hawke, and Anders can’t help but return it. “Anyway, I’ll let you get going,” Hawke says, crooking his thumb behind him, which is also in the direction of Anders’ bus stop. “I don’t live far away, so I walk. Also good for the whole drinking thing.”

“Well, my stop is right behind you. I can walk another hundred feet with you, if you don’t mind.” 

“Sure,” Hawke says, and Anders notices that he’s still fidgeting as they walk. “So, where’d you learn to play, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I had lessons as a kid,” Anders says. “And I used to play a lot a few years ago, as a hobby. I just picked it back up recently.” He leaves it at that, and Hawke thankfully doesn’t ask why he stopped. “What about you?”

“I grew up with it; my dad played piano and guitar, and Beth and I learned once we got old enough.” Anders is watching the ground under his feet, but knows by now that Hawke’s smile falters a little when he talks about his sister. He can almost hear the undercurrent of grief in Hawke’s voice, and it resonates within him. Anders understands grief, knows that in the beginning, the pain lashes out quick and predictable. It evolves over time, until you’re years beyond the epicenter with the shadow of it lingering around you, but it still creeps out every now and then, like something you catch out of the corner of your eye. 

They’ve made it to the bus stop, and Hawke turns to watch a car with a ridiculously loud stereo go by. Anders feels the bass from the speakers resonate as he stares at Hawke’s profile; he can’t make out the subtle scar on the man’s forehead in this light, but he’s already memorized where it is. Anders can’t help but laugh at how fate works sometimes, and he’s already smirking when Hawke returns his attention, but Anders hides it behind a cough. 

“Well, you’re good at it,” Hawke says, and runs a hand through his hair again. “I’ve said that before, though.”

“Well, we’re evenly matched, then,” Anders replies. He notices the bus turn onto the street, and is both thankful and sorry that their conversation is ending. “There’s my ride. I’ll see you next week, Hawke.”

“Yeah, take care, Anders,” the man replies, raising his hand for a small parting wave, and heads down the sidewalk.

The bus isn’t crowded, and Anders stares out the window at the increasingly weathered buildings as they pass. It does nothing to improve his mood, which has turned melancholy after leaving the bar and all of the distractions that it offered. He wishes, not for the first time, that he hadn’t stopped drinking, because even the artificial cheer that alcohol provided would be better than feeling like he was slowly turning into a ghost.

Anders gets off the bus a block from his apartment building, and he can hear all types of shouting voices and raucous music in the neighborhood around him. Thankfully, he’s up all night when he’s at home, otherwise he’d never be able to get any sleep. If he could afford to live anywhere else, he would, but having no car meant that Anders was forced to live in close enough proximity to a bus stop to be convenient. And since he was working at The Gallows anyway, it made enough sense to stay put within its proximity and ignore the annoyances as best he could.

Anders climbs up to his door on the second floor, frowning at the spilled bag of trash outside his neighbors’ door, hoping that he won’t have to deal with roaches anytime soon. His apartment is empty and quiet, save for the reverberation of bass against the adjoining wall and the heavy footsteps of his upstairs neighbors. He’s taken to avoiding his living room altogether because of the ambient noises, not that there’s anything besides an old couch and beat-up coffee table there to draw his attention.

He grabs an apple and a bottle of water from the fridge and sits at the sidetable he uses as a desk, opening his laptop and putting on his headphones to block out any intruding noises. After trying for fifteen minutes to resume his place in the novel he’d been reading and failing to get caught up in it, he sighs and rubs his forehead. 

“Ridiculous,” Anders mutters to himself, and opens his browser to search for “The Heavy.” The song he’s looking for, the one that Hawke sang at the bar that night, is the first result. He lets it play in the background, barely paying attention to the music video, too busy trying to replace the singer’s voice with Hawke’s.

Anders isn’t naïve; he knows when he’s being flirted with, and he can tell that Hawke has at least a passing interest in him, for whatever reason. If Anders were anyone else, he’d be thrilled at the prospect. The man is handsome, with his dark hair, beard, and crooked, genuine smile. He’s also a great musician, and by all accounts, he’s a kind person. He’d vaguely remembered Hawke from his infamous ER visit last year. He’d been flattered that someone had found him attractive enough to flirt with, even while they were getting stitches, and it had left him in a good mood for weeks. But the idea of facing Hawke’s attention on a weekly basis, for the next foreseeable future, makes him nervous.

Varric had leaned toward Anders while Hawke was playing to comment, “Maybe you can convince him to come back,” and while he knows the man was only trying to be cordial, even the insinuation that he should be the person responsible for bringing Hawke back to his passion is overwhelming. Anders has enough to worry about, he doesn’t need to add anything to do with Hawke to that list. And the irony of thinking that, as he’s listening to the song that the man played tonight on loop, isn’t lost on him, either.

_Don’t even start, it’s not worth the effort, you have nothing to offer anyone and you shouldn’t even be thinking of anyone else, how selfish of you, how _dare_ you…_

Anders puts his head in his hands, the soulful music still blaring through his headphones as he digs his fingernails into his forehead, centering himself on the sharp sting instead of the guilty thoughts conjured by his mind. He knows it’ll pass, that it’ll _all_ pass, and nothing is static, and eventually he’ll calm down; he takes a few deep breaths until he becomes frustrated with how shaky they are, and instead readjusts his fingers to press new indentations into his skin.

It takes another ten minutes for him to relax enough to close out of YouTube and launch Steam instead, and he loses himself in videogames until a beam of sunlight falling across his screen notifies him that it’s morning. He makes it to bed and falls asleep quickly, though he startles awake after a few hours and after staring at the ceiling for what seems like an eternity, he gives up trying to resume sleep and goes back to his laptop.

* * *

Anders’ shift is always busy on Saturday nights, because the weekend is a time of drinking and revelry, and many people injure themselves in the pursuit of both. He enjoys it when it’s busy, because he can point his focus at something tangible instead of dwelling on his thoughts, and he easily settles into the friendly face that he wears for patients. It cracks from time to time, like when a girl adamantly proclaims that her black eye came about from walking into a doorframe, eyes nervously darting to the exit, or when a junkie looking to score pain medicine puts on an Oscar-worthy performance of hysterics when Anders touches his shoulder, yet has no problem reaching his clumsily dropped cell phone.

Jowan offers him a high-five at the nurse’s station when he comes by for his lunch break at one in the morning. “Any zombies tonight?” he asks, because it’s a running joke and it keeps the mood light when it needs to be, 

“Not yet, but I’ll be sure to let you know,” Anders replies, digging through the drawers looking for a plastic fork for his cup of noodles.

“Will you really, or will you just bolt in the other direction?”

“I’ll send you a text if I’m fleeing for my life, don’t worry.” All he can find is a spoon, and he sighs and thinks that somehow this is an apt analogy of his life.

“At least shout something on your way out,” Jowan grumbles, returning to the game on his phone.

Anders browses his own phone while his food cooks, checking social media only briefly to see if he’s been mentioned in anything, then checks the speech-to-text version of the voicemail that Kristoff left him. It’s far more entertaining than the actual voice message itself, and Anders manages a snicker at the word combinations the translator comes up with. His brother had called in the afternoon, precisely at the time that he knew Anders would be awake but not working, but he’d ignored it out of anxiety. It’s not that he minds Kristoff checking up on him, even if he can be overbearing, but he’s debating on whether or not to tell him about Hawke and the others. He doesn’t want to give his brother false hope that his social life is improving.

Several hours later, Anders waits at the bus station, the hood of his sweatshirt blocking his face from the too-bright morning sun. While he’s nudging his toe against the pavement he notices the glint of a bottlecap with the green and blue logo for the Deep Roads brewing company; he picks it up, turning it over in his fingers and running his thumb across the ragged edge, then pockets it as the bus arrives. 

Sunday mornings mean Hari buys him breakfast, so he takes the route in the opposite direction, towards Lowtown, to the breakfast place where they’ve been meeting for almost two years. She’s already there by the time he arrives, her silver-dyed hair under a scarf, eyelids drooping as she sips coffee.

“You look like I feel,” Anders says, scooting into the booth across from her.

Hari arches an eyebrow, and it stays up until her mug touches the table. “Hate to break it to you, but you look half-dead, so I don’t even _want_ to know what that says about me.” She pours him his own mug from the carafe on the table and nudges it in his direction. “Also, don’t even start, because eight in the morning is always too early for me to be cheery. Even if I get breakfast out of it.”

“Don’t tell me you’d rather go to the Chantry?” Anders jokes, reaching for the sugar as Hari rolls her eyes. She and her husband have differing opinions on religion, and do their best to raise their son with an open mind. Anders has always had the feeling that Alistair only goes to service out of habit, or to let his wife have a break from watching Tamlen.

“Nope. Don’t care, won’t do it, and that’s Alistair’s job as long as Tam still wants to go.” She smirks and sits back in the booth, gesturing with her mug. “Besides, someone has to make sure that you eat regularly. And no, ramen still doesn’t count as food.”

Anders frowns and is about to retort, but the waitress comes over to verify that they want their usual orders (two waffles, one with strawberries and one with bananas and chocolate chips, side of bacon) and he decides it’s not worth the argument.

“So then,” Hari says conspiratorially, after the waitress leaves, “How’s things?”

“Which things?” Anders asks, “You’ll have to be more specific.” He knows what she’s after, of course, but refuses to play along, and drinks his coffee instead.

“Work? No, too boring, nevermind.” Hari props her chin on her fist and smiles benevolently. “The bar gig you have going. How’s that?”

“Steady.” After a moment, he sighs and also admits, “Fun. It’s nice, for now.”

“Nice is good,” she says. “Anything else?” She nudges his leg with her foot, and he stills it, not even realizing he’d been bouncing his knee and rocking the table. 

“How’s Pounce doing?” Anders’ apartment doesn’t accept pets, and Hari has been looking after his cat for the last year. He visits as often as he can, but it’s still hard, and his current living situation can’t be changed. 

“Still great. He knocked the TV remote off the table and onto the dog’s head the other night. You would have been proud.”

Anders smirks at that, and after a silence, he finally caves and gives her what he thinks she’s baiting him for. “I’m.... apparently invited to a birthday party next Saturday.” Her smile widens, and Anders rolls his eyes and sets his mug down to rest his forehead in his hands.

Hari chuckles. “Don’t look so sad about it, Merrill said there’s going to be a bouncy castle. That’s worth it on its own.”

“‘Sad’ isn’t the word I’d use,” he mutters. “More like, ‘panicked.’ I don’t know how to act around children, and I have to pretend to do that while _also_ trying to convince Hawke and his friends that I’m not hopeless.”

“Alright, well, first,” Hari says, clearing her throat. “You’re good with Tamlen, so you’re fine with children, and said children will be running around anyway, and not paying attention to anything but sugar and toys. You don’t even have to care about them. Second, it seems you’ve already convinced Hawke of being not-hopeless because he’s the one that invited you.”

“Maybe he did it so I wouldn’t feel left out.”

“Yes, well, obviously.” She deflects Anders’ glare with a raised eyebrow. “But that means he _didn’t want you to be left out._ Therefore, he wants you to show up.” Her mug rises to her lips as she slyly adds, “Hawke sounds like a nice guy.”

“He _is_ a nice guy,” Anders replies miserably. “He’s friendly, and makes terrible jokes, and plays the piano really well.”

“Merrill says he’s cute.”

“I refuse to go down this path of conversation.” Anders resists the urge to let his head fall against the table, but only barely.

“Come on, let me have this,” Hari says with a laugh.

“No. I barely know him. You’re being ridiculous.” 

“Pot-kettle-black, darling. I just want you to have fun.” She pats his arm consolingly, and he finally raises his head with a sigh.

“Trust me, I’m well aware of that. It’s not like that comes easy. I’m just thankful that at least everyone seems to tolerate me.” Anders looks at her thoughtfully. “You’d probably get along with that group, actually.”

“Well then I’m all the more excited to meet them, since I can’t ever seem to break away on Fridays and come down myself. I’m sure those bar nights have all been a welcome change in scenery from your terrible apartment and the hospital.”

“It is. I’m looking forward to it every week, which is silly, and no, it’s not just Hawke,” he says pointedly. “That’s a whole… other thing. I’m just waiting for the catch.” He stirred his coffee and frowned.

Hari isn’t a patient person, but she’s always understanding of his moods, something that Anders is eternally grateful for. “There doesn’t have to be a catch, and it’s not silly. It could just be that you’re finally getting something out of life instead of just going day-to-day, and that people enjoy your company, and that you can _relax_ sometimes.”

“Sounds too good to be true.”

“Well then, it could just be that you’re doing that thing where you talk yourself out of a good time.” Hari makes a dismissive gesture with her mug, reaching for more coffee. “And in regards to that ‘whole other thing’, it could be that Hawke is just _nice_ , and there’s no catch.”

“I don’t know if that’s better or worse, honestly.”

Anders’ phone goes off as their food arrives; it’s Kristoff, and she gestures for him to go ahead and see to it. He answers with, “I’m at breakfast with Hari.”

“Ah, well, I won’t keep you, then.” His brother always sounds surprisingly alert, even this early on a weekend morning. “You didn’t return my call.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Things are alright, don’t worry about me.” Anders rolls his eyes at his friend, and she gives him a sympathetic smirk as she pours syrup across her waffle.

“Good. I know we haven’t spoken in a while, and I apologize.”

“It’s fine, you’re working on important things. We’ll catch up soon, whenever you’re free.” He pokes his fork absently at the dollop of whipped cream on his plate.

“What about…” There’s a shuffle of papers on the other end. “...Thursday? After you’ve woken up?”

“Sure, that’s fine. I’ll text you.”

“Good. Say hello to Hari for me.”

Anders waves in her direction, and she blows a kiss toward the phone with the hand not holding her fork. “She says likewise. Bye.” He disconnects the phone and sets it down, but doesn’t start eating, too wrapped up in the reason why Kristoff has been so busy.

“Still overworked and never having any fun?” Hari asks.

“Yeah, you know how it is. That bill is his child.” It’s always something, really, with his brother being a civil rights attorney, but he can’t fault Kristoff for doing what he believes in. But this new marriage equality effort is different; it’s personal and it hurts to think about, to the point where Anders would oddly prefer feeling guilty for _not_ paying attention to it.

“Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed for him, as always. Alistair still has some friends in the Governor’s office, I’ll tell Kristoff if I hear anything interesting.”

“He’d appreciate it.”

Hari sets her fork down when she realizes he’s just shoving strawberries around his plate. “Anders.”

“I just don’t want to think about it. I’m glad he’s going forward with it, but it’s just… too little, too late.” And there’s the shame, coiling inside him tight in his gut until he stops pretending to eat and just pushes his plate away.

“He’s not making you uncomfortable, is he?” Hari’s doing that thing with her voice where she’s very calm and steady, which means she’s preparing to unleash fury if Anders says so.

“No, he never would. I told him I didn’t want my sob story attached to it, and he respects that. Is that selfish of me?” he asks, though it’s not the first time he’s told her this, and it likely won’t be the last.

“There’s a difference between being selfish and having self-preservation,” she says. “And you know what, even it if _was_ , fuck it, you can afford to be selfish every now and then. You _should_ be selfish sometimes, and you’ve forgotten how to be.”

Anders doesn’t reply, and she nudges his leg again. “Now stop thinking and eat your breakfast,” she scolds, doing her best impression of a nagging mother, and he snorts and picks up his fork.

* * *

“I’m just trying to help. You know that,” Hari says later, while she drives Anders back to Darktown.

“I know. There’s just a lot, all of a sudden. The last couple years were dull and lonely, but at least it was _steady_.” He looks out the window as they speed down the freeway, watching the billboards get progressively less flashy. “And now I’m stuck in Darktown on the night shift, in a noisy, overpriced shithole, trying to make friends in my thirties and potentially crushing on someone out of my league.”

For his sake, she avoids smirking at the inclusion of “potentially,” and focuses instead on the important bits. “Well, I’m going to tell you the same thing I always do. You deserve to be happy, and you’re _not_ terrible for wanting to be happy, and it’s been three years with you just sort of ‘existing.’ I mean, I’d kick your own ass for how you treat yourself, if it would help. But you don’t need me to keep telling you these things, and maybe you should hear it from someone else.”

He sighs in resignation at the thought of going back to therapy; it’s been over a year since he’s gone. “I thought I’d be done with all of this by now.”

“No one’s ever _done_ , darling. It just rises and falls like the tide. You have to ride this bit out, and there’s no harm in asking for a life preserver.”

Anders makes a face, and Hari glances over at him, her mouth twisted in a frown; despite the reassurance, she knows as well as he does how corny that sounded. “You’re always so poetic,” he jokes, grinning despite himself. “Was that a moral at the end of Spongebob or something?”

“Maker’s fucking ass! Do you _know_ how many fucking hours my child spends watching that shit? I can't do anything without thinking of the fucking ocean!” Hari throws a backhanded slap at his shoulder to try and get him to stop laughing at her outburst, but she’s laughing too. “Excuse me for throwing some metaphor in your general direction! You ungrateful dick.”

Anders arranges a ride to the birthday party next Saturday with Hari, and he feels generally better as he enters his apartment (and ignores the trash on the landing again). The bottlecap he pocketed earlier gets dropped into a bowl with a few other assorted bits of colorful junk, and he obediently writes a note to himself to call his therapist on Monday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the song [Believe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQeEcNj95lo) by The Bravery. A good piano cover can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nGiu-vEqPBE). 
> 
> I love all of you and everyone that's commented and read and given kudos, it means the world to me. Thanks for encouraging this madness to continue. :D
> 
> Visit me on [tumblr](http://un-shit-yourself.tumblr.com) to see what else I scream about.


	7. Rock the Casbah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders tolerates a dog, Carver acts like a child, and Hawke turns into a dragon.

The following Friday is uneventful, with Anders playing his normal set inbetween socializing with Hawke and the others. He nearly cancels on Hawke’s invitation to his nephew’s party, but through some miracle of willpower, he manages to talk himself out of it. If it turns out to be horrible, he can talk to Hari all afternoon, he reasons. It’s not as though Hawke’s eager smile when he says “See you tomorrow” is what makes Anders change his mind.

Anders sets his alarm earlier than normal to account for the birthday party, but still manages to wake up before it goes off. Resigned to his fate, he’s already dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and ready when Hari comes to pick him up, his messenger bag with his scrubs over his shoulder. He greets Tamlen as he sits in the passenger seat, and the ginger child immediately launches into talking about his favorite cartoons while Hari intermittently says, “That’s way cool,” as she drives.

“You look good,” she says once there’s silence from the backseat. “But judging from your expression, you’re on your way to the dentist. Calm down.”

“Easy for you to say,” Anders replies. As the houses in Hightown start looking progressively nicer the more neighborhoods they venture through, it only fuels his anxiety. “Am I dressed for this?”

“For a six-year-old’s birthday?” Hari counters. “You’re great.” She pats him on the shoulder reassuringly.

The address that Hawke gave leads to a large, Federal-style home in the north end of Hightown. Everything about the place is immaculately kept, from the landscaping to the faҫade, which makes the old SUV in the driveway look extremely out of place. Anders waits for Hari and Tamlen, and follows them up the brick pathway to the front door.

“Here,” Hari says, pulling a wrapped present out of the gift bag she holds and handing it to Anders. “This one’s yours.”

“Oh sh-crap,” Anders says, cursing at his forgetfulness and then catching himself for Tamlen’s sake. “Thanks.”

“It’s what I’m here for,” she replies.

Hawke answers the door in a nerdy t-shirt and jeans, lessening Anders’ anxiety about his appearance, and offers them a genuine smile. “Hey, welcome, come on in,” he says, and Anders steps through behind Hari, studiously ignoring her eyebrow-wiggle once Hawke turns his back. The house is just as nice inside, with hardwood floors, large furniture, and lots of windows that let in the light. Despite how expensive everything seems, it feels comfortable and lived-in.

Hari shakes Hawke’s hand in greeting, a smirk on her face. “Nice to meet you, Hawke. This is Tamlen.” The ginger-haired boy shuffles his feet and waves to Hawke, who smiles in greeting. 

“Hey there. The other kids are in the den ‘cos we’re waiting for Mal to get here, you want to join them?” Tamlen nods, and Hawke leads them down the hall, where the sound of a Disney movie and assorted tiny voices assail them. A half-dozen kids are playing with various plastic toys and costumes while a few adults chat on the sofa. Hari’s son looks to her for permission, and she waves him forward to join the others.

Hawke shows them around the rest of the main floor, and they meet his mother and a red-haired woman in the large kitchen. Leandra is polished but welcoming, like her home, and Aveline raises an eyebrow at Hari’s introduction. “Surely that’s not short for Harold?” she asks.

Hari deflects the obligatory comment with practiced ease. “Oh, no. Mahariel. It’s Dalish, and much easier if I give the short version.”

“I think it’s lovely,” Leandra says with a smile, and it’s not long before Hari’s embedded herself in conversation with the two women, leaving Anders and Hawke to their own devices.

“You want to come outside? It’s quieter, and there’s a dog,” Hawke says, as if that last part is supposed to be enticing.

“Sure,” Anders says anyway, and glares at Hari as she gives him a subtle wave goodbye.

The backyard is huge and just as attractively landscaped as the front of the house; one side has a plastic playset, a garden, and a fenced-in area, and the other holds the primary-colored monstrosity that is the bouncy castle. The porch is decorated in a fantasy theme with streamers and balloons, with seating set up for guests and folding tables ready to hold presents and food. 

Anders shifts his attention to the large brown dog inside the fence, who eagerly bounces around at the sight of Hawke. “That’s not a dog, that’s a bear,” he says, mildly apprehensive. 

“Nah, he’s about as fierce as a pillow. He’s a big puppy.” Hawke takes note of Anders’ expression. “You don’t like dogs?”

“I prefer cats,” Anders replies, and Hawke shakes his head and sighs dramatically.

“And we were getting along so well,” he jokes. “I’ll leave him in the fence, if you like. Mom prefers he’s kept in so he doesn’t make a mess everywhere.”

“No, it’s fine,” Anders says, though he’s not eager to get knocked over by an overly-friendly animal. “Let him enjoy himself.”

Hawke approaches the gate, and the dog barks excitedly, wagging his tail. “I’ll let you out if you’re good and don’t eat Mom’s flowers, how’s that? Are you going to be a good dog?” he asks, grinning when the dog sits obediently, tail still thumping against the grass. Hawke opens it, and the dog scampers out, spinning around Hawke and then aiming toward Anders.

Anders braces himself, but the dog doesn’t jump up, just wags his tail and sniffs him, then sits and lets out a whine when Anders doesn’t pet him immediately. “See, Barkspawn’s a good dog,” Hawke says proudly.

“He is,” Anders agrees, and pats the dog’s head while his brain catches up and realizes what he heard. “Wait, you named your dog ‘Barkspawn’?”

“Yeah,” Hawke says sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. “It’s, uh…”

“Like ‘darkspawn,’ right? From the ‘Warden’ games?” Anders finishes, and the grin that Hawke gives him is dazzling. 

“You play those?” He looks almost as excited as his dog, who’s stopped trying to get attention and gone off to sniff around the yard. “I got my dog after the first game came out, I couldn’t resist.”

“Yeah, I love that series.” It’s been the only thing keeping Anders entertained at home for months. “I haven’t gotten far in the third one, though. Have you gotten to the Deep Roads bit yet?”

“Man, fuck that place,” Hawke says adamantly. “I’ve beaten the whole thing as a rogue, and now I’m replaying it again as a mage, and I swear it’s the worst.”

Anders smirks. “Well, I’m glad you saw the error of your ways. Mage is the best class, obviously.”

That sparks a good-natured argument over which class is the best, then leads to commiserating over other intolerable sections of gameplay (“I will die happy if I never have to go into the Fade again”) and which game of the series was better. He and Hawke are so distracted that they fail to realize Barkspawn is digging in Leandra’s flower garden.

“Shit!” Hawke exclaims, running over to survey the damage. “Bad dog!” Barkspawn slinks off guiltily, and Anders tries not to laugh as Hawke attempts to prop up a bunch of fallen marigolds. 

“See, cats are much better behaved,” Anders says.

“Yeah, until they shred your couch. At least flowers grow back.” Hawke makes a face and settles the dirt as best he can around the flowers. “Maybe she won’t notice.”

“I think she’s going to notice.” The marigolds collapse, and Hawke grumbles and glares at his dog, who gives him a surprisingly innocent look. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” the brunet scolds, and brushes soil from his hands. 

Hawke excuses himself to wash up, and Anders is left alone with the dog and the pleasantly warm day. _This isn’t so bad_ , he thinks, glad to be outdoors in such a lush, calm plot of land. Barkspawn comes over to him when he sits cross-legged on the lawn, and Anders pats him on the head, less hesitantly this time; the dog responds by flopping onto his back and wagging his tail. 

“You’re not as cute as a cat, but you’re alright,” he says, and Barkspawn huffs in response. 

The calm vanishes in the next moment, as he hears an excited, high-pitched yell come from inside. In seconds, the children have migrated outside, dressed up in various costumes to suit the fantasy theme. They storm towards the bouncy castle, led by a dark-haired boy in a wizard robe that must be Mal. Barkspawn leaps up and runs towards the kids, happily barking as he goes. Adults wisely stay in the safety of the porch, and he sees Hari talking to Merrill and Isabela; she waves him over, but he shakes his head. He’s content to observe away from the others, for now. 

But he doesn’t mind when Hawke returns after a few minutes and sits on the lawn too, looking wistfully at the kids. “Mom wanted this to be a great day for him,” he says, idly pulling up grass bits. “I think she’s done pretty well at that so far.”

“If I’d had half of this as a child, I’d never worry about anything.” Anders fears that he’s accidentally turning the conversation to himself, and adds, “He’s young, he’ll be alright.”

Hawke nods and wraps a blade of grass around his finger, then starts picking it apart while he talks. “Yeah, he probably will. I just worry about how he’s going to deal with milestones and holidays and things like this without Bethany. No one deserves to lose their mom like that.”

Anders looks at the shredded grass sprinkled across Hawke’s jeans. “No one deserves to lose their sister like that, either.” 

The brunet grimaces. “Yeah, that’s true,” he replies quietly, then clears his throat and adopts a more jovial expression. “Sorry, shouldn’t be such a downer when things are supposed to be fun.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Anders returns Hawke’s smile and leans back on his hands to stretch out his spine. “If you like, we can go back to how terrible the Deep Roads are.”

Hawke groans and throws the remaining grass he’s holding across the lawn. “Fuck that place.”

* * *

“So how’s your Etsy shop doing, Merrill?” Hari asks, sipping her beer. She’s got one eye on the inflated bounce-house, like most of the other parents, keeping an eye on her ginger-haired child and thankful that he’s not causing any trouble.

“Oh, it’s great!” the tiny woman says. “The little voodoo dolls have been selling out. Bela says I should start making scarves again, but I was thinking maybe I could make them for dogs too. I mean, dogs can wear sweaters, but what if it’s only their necks that get cold? Also, wouldn’t it be so cute?” Merrill pauses to think. “Oh, but maybe it will get in the way of the collar.”

“Maybe,” Hari agrees with a grin. “Though if you end up making them, I’ll buy one and test it out on Lion.” 

Bela returns with a drink for herself and her girlfriend, and coos at Merrill’s excited expression. “What are you plotting now, Kitten?”

“Dog scarves!” she replies. “I know it’s spring, but if I start in a few months, maybe I can have them done by autumn. Do you think cats would like them?”

“I think cats are much less fond of wearing clothing,” Hari says. “You’d be better off making toys for them instead.”

“That’s a shame.” Merrill frowns. “Cats would look adorable in scarves.”

“That they would,” Isabela says, patting her shoulder reassuringly. “If anyone could get a cat to wear a scarf, it’d be you.”

Aveline joins them, sitting down with a sigh. “Finally have some time for a break, I don’t know how Leandra keeps up with so many things. What’s going on?”

“Dog scarves,” Isabela says with a wink, which launches Merrill into an excited explanation of her idea, including the group consensus that cat scarves just aren't practical.

Aveline blinks and looks like she’s about to give logical reasons why the endeavor won’t work once the dark-haired girl is done, but just shakes her head. “Those sound lovely, Merrill.”

“Thanks!” She sips from her glass and becomes focused on one of the beads woven through Isabela’s braids.

Hari’s gaze is drawn down the yard to Anders and Hawke, notes Hawke’s eager expression as he’s explaining something and gesturing with his hands, and Anders’ amused smile as he follows along. She’s glad to see the blond looking so relaxed, and settles back in her patio chair with a knowing smirk.

Isabela catches her focus. “Ooh, look at that,” she says, gesturing with her glass towards the two. 

“I need information on that bearded music man,’ Hari commands.

“He’s an idiot, but a well-meaning one,” Aveline replies bluntly.

“It’s true, he’s a giant nerd,” Isabela says, clucking her tongue. “Completely hopeless with romance, hasn’t had a date in months.”

“Well that’s not very nice,” Merrill pouts. “Hawke is a good person. He likes to help people, and he has a dog, and he’s got very nice arms.” Isabela gives her an affronted look. “What, it’s true! You have nice arms, too.”

Hari chuckles into her beer. “‘Hopeless, kind nerd with great biceps and a dog’? He should use that on a dating profile.”

“I tried to set one up for him, but he wouldn’t let me,” Isabela sighs, while Merrill pets her arm fondly.

“Well he’s not a total idiot, then,” Aveline comments. “How many exaggerations to his sexual prowess did you try to add?”

She waves her other hand dismissively. “Only like, three.”

Hari’s attention is drawn away again, this time to a tall, blond man standing next to Leandra, watching the kids jump around. It takes her a moment to place him, but then she remembers meeting him at one of Alistair’s company gatherings from his previous job. His name is Cullen, she remembers that, and then she also remembers his very nice wife, Bethany, who commiserated with Hari about raising a boy, and the association with Hawke’s sister clicks in her head. She ought to say something sympathetic to Cullen about his wife’s death on Alistair’s behalf since the two worked closely together, even if it comes out weird or he doesn’t remember her.

She downs the remainder of her beer. “I’m terrible at everything. I’ll be right back,” she says, going over to Cullen.

“She’s a bit odd,” Aveline comments.

“Everyone is but you, amazon,” Isabela says, grinning when the other woman scoffs at the nickname and leaves the table.

* * *

Carver arrives at the party an hour late, and before he even starts shovelling food into his mouth, he’s inside the bouncy castle with the kids, screaming in delight as he hops around. It’s probably the funniest thing Hawke’s ever seen, and he’s nearly on the ground laughing as Carver’s manic giggling reaches a ridiculous pitch. 

“I’m gonna die, I have to record this,” Hawke says, managing to get his phone unlocked while trying to catch his breath.

“I think he’s having more fun than the kids,” Anders adds.

The video footage is going to be shoddy at best, but Hawke knows it’s worth keeping if only for blackmail towards Carver’s future girlfriends. His brother must have a sixth sense about embarrassment, because he looks out the mesh screen and sees Hawke pointing the phone at him. “Hey! Don’t you dare!” he yells.

“Too late, I’m putting this on the internet,” Hawke replies with a grin.

“You son of a-”

“Carver!” Leandra scolds, walking up to the entrance of the playplace, then adding, “Garrett, stop filming your brother.”

Hawke obediently puts his phone away as she calls for Mal and the kids to come out for the piñata. He and Anders step back to avoid the swarm, and Carver comes out a moment later and hits Hawke in the arm. “Asshole.”

“I’m just capturing the moment for posterity. You were being adorable.” Hawke moves away from a second strike. “I won’t post it anywhere, don’t worry.”

“You better not.” 

Carver’s attention turns to the blond next to him, and Hawke gestures between the two. “Carver, Anders; Anders, Carver.”

“Hey,” Anders says, offering his hand.

“Hey,” Hawke’s brother echoes. He shakes Anders’ hand and looks between the two of them. “Boyfriend or no? I can never tell.”

Hawke turns a few shades of red, determinedly not looking at Anders. “He’s just a friend, you ass.” The awkward conversation is thankfully interrupted by cheering as the kids start taking blind swings at a purple dragon piñata hanging from the large ash tree. Carver wanders off towards the refreshments, and Hawke watches Mal continuously swing and miss at the paper sculpture. 

“Aww,” Hawke comments as the stick gets passed to Tamlen.

“To be fair, he’s dressed as a mage,” Anders says, and when Hawke chances a look, he’s smirking.

“Totally not proficient with melee weapons,” Hawke agrees. 

Within moments, Tamlen breaks open the piñata, and after the kids roll around in the pile of candy, the remains of the dragon are left on the grass. Mal looks at it sadly, and Hawke steps forward.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” Hawke asks.

“It was really cool,” Mal says. “I wanted to keep it.”

“Well I don’t think you can keep all of it, but its head still looks cool, right?” Hawke picks up the papier-mâché head; the dragon is smiling and has a goofy expression, a bit of orange foil sticking out to represent fire. “ _I_ think it’s cool. You can be like an adventurer that killed the dragon and gets the head for a trophy.”

“I didn’t kill it though, Tamlen did.” Mal looks mildly intrigued by Hawke’s speech, though.

Hawke gets an idea and grins. “Well, what if it… comes back to life!” The dragon’s head is barely big enough to sit on his own giant head, so he has to hold it with one hand. He reaches out for Mal with the other, giving out a terribly convincing roar, and Mal giggles excitedly, retrieves his plastic wizard staff from the ground, and hits Hawke in the back.

“Ow!” He winces and runs away, cackling as Mal chases him. “You can’t catch me, I’m the best dragon!”

In typical fashion, Hawke didn’t think this through. Mal’s shriek of joy alerts the other kids, who join in the hunt with their own toy weapons. Pretty soon Hawke is getting winded and the children show no sign of stopping, but he keeps running, now legitimately afraid for the wellbeing of his person. At least Barkspawn gives rowdy approval to Hawke’s shenanigans as he dashes by the fence.

Hawke trips over a divot in the lawn and falls ungracefully to the ground. “Ahhh!” he yells as various plastic weapons hit his chest and back, and he curls into a fetal position and protects his face from the more overzealous child heroes. Dimly, he hears lots of amusement coming from the porch, with Bela’s sharp cackle ringing out louder than the rest.

Mal takes the dragon head and lifts it up triumphantly. “We killed the dragon!” he cries, and the other kids cheer. Leandra comes over, shooing the kids away. “You’re the best, Uncle Hawke!” Mal adds as he runs away.

“Are you alright, dear?” his mother asks, obviously trying not to laugh, and Hawke gives her a thumbs up, but remains immobile. “Good. We’re going to do cake soon, so try to recover as soon as possible.” She pats his arm and walks away.

He rolls over onto his back, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I didn’t think this through,” he grumbles. He hears footsteps in the grass and Anders stands over him, smiling. Hawke can see about a dozen colors in his hair as it shines in the sunlight, from dusky gold to brilliant auburn, and he swallows weakly.

“No, you didn’t,” Anders replies. “But that _was_ pretty amusing.”

“Well I’m glad I remain entertaining,” he says, then waves a hand. “Help me, healer.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to heal the evil dragon,” Anders says with a laugh.

“No, I’ve changed my ways. I’m a friendly dragon now. Honest.” Hawke pouts at him; he can’t tell immediately how effective it is from his position on the ground, but Anders does offer a hand to help him up. Hawke accepts and gets to his feet, very mindful of not holding onto Anders longer than necessary. “See? Friendly.”

“For now,” Anders says, “But I’ve got my eye on you.”

Hawke grins. “Do I get punished if I’m a naughty dragon?” he says before he can stop himself, and he’s rewarded with a blush.

“Of course. I’ll find some big warrior-type to chase after you next time.”

Hawke has the perfect comeback to that, about how he prefers getting chased by slender mages, and boldly considers adding something about how they taste better, but the call to come over for cake and presents happens before he can deliver. Anders is already walking away. Hawke still counts the exchange as a victory.

* * *

After another hour, the kids finally go inside for some other activities, leaving the bouncy castle vacant. Merrill and Isabela are already inside, screeching and giggling, and Hawke climbs in after them. Anders sits with Hari on the nearly deserted porch. Mentally, he’s tired from having to socialize for the last few hours, though he’s less nervous when speaking with Hawke. He figures that he should partake in the castle, since it was supposed to be the drawing point of the whole evening, and pokes Hari’s arm and nods towards it. “You want to join me in acting like a child again?”

“If only,” she says. “I should probably go with Aveline and check that _my_ child is behaving himself.” She huffs and gets to her feet, popping her neck and wincing. “I’ll be inside if you need me.”

Anders has no choice but to head to where the others have convened. He slides his shoes off and ducks inside, dodging Merrill’s excited flailing and standing uncertainly on the wobbling surface. 

“Can we get one of these for the bar?” Isabela asks, her cleavage barely restrained from flying out of her shirt with every bounce. 

“Nah, drinking and jumping around don’t mix,” Hawke replies. He grins at Anders and gestures for him to jump along with them. 

The blond joins in, and soon finds that it’s rather impossible to have any worries in a bouncy castle. There’s an unstable rhythm with the four of them leaping around each other, and Hawke falls into Anders with a blushing apology after Isabela shoves him off-balance. They eventually get the hang of it, and Isabela grabs one of Anders’ arms and Merrill grabs the other, and all four of them jump in a circle together until they collapse, laughing. 

Hawke gets up again, swaying to keep his balance as he backs away to give himself room. “I’m gonna do a flip.”

“Well, good thing we have a nurse here for you,” Isabela says, winking at Anders.

“I’m off duty, try not to injure yourself severely,” Anders replies dryly.

Hawke doesn’t injure himself, but he also doesn’t complete the forward flip; he lands on his ass instead of his feet, but shrugs after he flails for a moment. “Close enough.”

“You get points for trying,” Merrill says reassuringly. She and her girlfriend get back on their feet, jumping together and play-roughhousing. Anders looks away as the two fall down in a tangle of limbs, while Hawke watches and shakes his head.

“Good thing the kids went inside and don’t have to see this indecent display,” he says.

“I’m sure your brother wouldn’t mind watching. Or joining,” Isabela replies, winking from over Merrill’s shoulder, and Hawke looks horrified. “What? It might loosen him up.”

“That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard and no, I refuse to continue with this,” Hawke grumbles. He firmly turns from the two women and faces Anders, chin propped up on his hands. “Say something to get that horrible mental image out of my head, please.”

He’s giving Anders his pouting look again, and the blond clears his throat before he replies. “If it makes you feel better, he probably wouldn’t survive Isabela.”

“Ugh,” Hawke groans, but he looks less disgusted. “I guess that’s a consolation prize.”

Anders’ phone alarm sounds from his pocket, making him jump. “That’s my cue,” he says. “Time for work.”

Both Merrill and Isabela let out an “Aww” of disappointment. 

“Well, thanks for coming.” Hawke grins at him. “You have a ride?”

“Yeah, Hari’s taking me in, I’ll go find her. And thanks for the invite. It was fun.” He’s genuinely surprised about that, because he wasn’t expecting to have such a good time, but he’s alright with being pleasantly surprised for once.

Hawke follows him out and walks him inside to find his friend, who’s got Tamlen’s hand gripped in hers and a loot bag in the other arm.

“Here, hold this,” she says, thrusting her child at Anders. “He keeps wanting to run off, and I have to find my purse.”

Anders takes the kid’s hand, ignoring Tamlen’s pleas about wanting to go see Mal’s toys once more before they leave. “I’ll see you at the bar next week?” he asks Hawke.

“Yeah. Same time as usual.” Hawke looks like he wants to say something else, but Hari returns, and he instead offers a small wave in parting.

Anders braces himself for Hari’s discourse on the day once they’re in the car, which ranges from praise to Leandra for organizing everything so well, to minor annoyances with other parents and gossip from Isabela. When she finally pulls up to the hospital, Anders thinks he’s gotten away without any sort of jab towards his budding friendship with Hawke, but she gives him a smirk as he says goodnight.

“He’s good,” she says simply.

Anders frowns, expecting more. “ _Good_? What does that mean?”

“It means what it means, sheesh. Don’t overthink it.”

“Too late,” he replies under his breath. She just shoos him out of the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from ["Rock the Casbah"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJ9r8LMU9bQ) by The Clash. [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sTh_nt8Ox_w) is the closest thing I could find to a cover, when it's really just the piano parts of the song taken out as their own track.
> 
> Sorry this took two months. Hopefully the next one won't? :/ This chapter was supposed to be fun and show everyone off a bit, though it's light on plot. The next one should make up for it. *shrugs so hard I backflip into the dumpster*
> 
> Visit me on [tumblr](http://un-shit-yourself.tumblr.com) to see what else I scream about.


	8. Sour Cherry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders needs assistance, Fenris provides an option, and Hawke lends himself a hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated. Chapter title from [Sour Cherry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ywjMtZH5Cls) by The Kills.

Anders comes home one Tuesday morning to find an envelope slipped under his door. He worries for a moment that it’s a message from a disgruntled neighbor that thinks he’s been blaring music, since that’s happened before, but it turns out to be from the apartment office. Anxiety not improved by the realization, he opens the letter and skims it. It’s a renewal notice, asking Anders to confirm that he wants to remain in such splendor for another year, and also conveniently informs him that rent will be increasing by $150 a month to “meet rental market standards,” and if he refuses the increase, he has 30 days to vacate. He triple-checks where they placed the decimal point in the number, crumples the letter into a ball, and throws it in the direction of his couch.

He’s already at his limit for expenses; his student loans are a nightmare, his emergency credit card has been continuously maxed out, and he still owes a large amount on a medical bill from three years ago. If he wants to eat, he can’t stay where he is, and that means trying to find a new place to live on a bus route or close to the Gallows. It’s nearly impossible to find something affordable that meets that criteria, especially if the “rental market” is already so outrageous.

After wasting too much time dealing with his panic, Anders starts searching for anything in the area with a vacancy while skipping the neighborhoods he knows to avoid. He first tries searching for apartments that allow pets, so that he can finally take Pounce back from Hari, but after seeing pet deposits amounts, he sighs and unchecks the option on the website. It becomes quickly evident that with no savings to speak of, Anders can’t come up with even a security deposit for a new apartment, and he closes his laptop sharply and resists the urge to throw it out the window.

He knows that if asked, Kristoff would immediately lend him the money for a deposit. His brother continuously offers to help him out, but Anders refuses to be a charity case. Hari would also let him stay in their spare room again, but now that Tamlen’s older he wouldn’t feel right intruding on her time with him and Alistair. Besides, she lives in Hightown, on the other end of the city from where he needs to be. 

But his options are slim, and the next night he even resorts to looking at Craigslist for a room to let, quickly discounting that idea when he sees nothing but sketchy ads posted by men looking for “young female tenants only” with “negotiable rent.” He stays up too late for the rest of the week, aimlessly searching and going over his bank statements online until the numbers all swim together and his stomach twists, finally dragging himself to his bed around noon to wake up five hours later, work, and come home to repeat the process all over again.

* * *

It’s been a few weeks since Mal’s party, and it seems a little easier every Friday for Hawke to come down to the bar and gather with his friends. He and Anders have worked out a small arrangement where Hawke takes over while the blond goes on a break, playing a few songs with or without Fenris to back him up, and that’s also gotten easier with time. It’s still not the same as it was, and he catches himself looking up at Bethany’s piano every now and then, like he expects her to be there singing with him. At least he isn’t drinking heavily every time that happens.

Anders walks off the stage for his break, which is Hawke’s cue to go up. He catches the furrow in Anders’ brow, and the blond gives him a weak smile as they pass each other. “You alright?” Hawke asks.

“Yeah, just tired,” Anders replies, shaking his head.

Taking the seat at his piano, Hawke waves to the crowd. It seems like they’ve been busier the last few Fridays, but it could also be Hawke’s view from the stage; he’s still not wholly comfortable, and there always seems to be more people staring at him than there actually are in the bar. He swallows his nerves and stretches his fingers over the keys. Fenris had to work late, so he doesn’t play anything too showy, sings “Buddy Holly” and “With a Little Help From My Friends” because they’re both short ones, and everyone always sings along to them. 

Hawke manages occasional glances towards Anders, but the man doesn’t seem to be paying attention to anything other than his phone, and it oddly disappoints Hawke that he can’t distract Anders from whatever it is that bothers him. He knows through various conversations with the blond (and a few comments from Merrill) that Anders has had some rough things happen to him in the past. Being well acquainted with personal struggles himself, he’s never prodded for details, though he struggles between wanting Anders to know he’s available to talk and worrying that such an offer would be too forward at this stage of their friendship. 

He returns to the table to find Anders already gone. “Went outside for some air,” Varric explains, giving Hawke a knowing look. “Sit down and relax.”

Hawke does the first, and makes an attempt at the second. Merrill’s playing Neko Atsume on her phone, and starts excitedly showing Hawke all of the new cat supplies she’s bought over the last week while he tries to mimic her enthusiasm. After a few more minutes, Anders returns to the stage, and Hawke’s cheered to see that he seems to be in better spirits. 

Fenris eventually joins the table, launching into a diatribe against people being “willfully ignorant” when it comes to technology and how he was stuck on a support call with a man who kept insisting that he wasn’t receiving email, when Fenris had technical proof that he was. Hawke gets happier he refused Carver’s customer service job offer with each of Fenris’ tales.

His thoughts drift as he listens to Anders sing, trying to keep track of the conversation at the table while focusing on the stage at the same time. It fails miserably, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been staring until Isabela sneaks behind him and hisses, “Boo!” into his ear. 

He jolts in his seat, knocking his knee against the underside of the table, and curses at her as she moves away. “That’s cheap.”

“Still worked,” she replies, petting Merrill’s hair as the girl giggles at his blush. “You were starting to drool.”

“I wasn’t,” Hawke insists, resisting the urge to wipe his mouth to make sure. Fenris just rolls his eyes at him, and Hawke makes an effort not to look at Anders for his last few songs.

Isabela refills their drinks and comes by to hand Anders his water as he returns to the table, then plops down onto Merrill’s lap. Varric sighs behind his computer screen and mutters something about hiring reliable help, and she scoffs. “It’s my break time, don’t start.”

“You spend more time out here than behind the bar,” Varric scolds.

“If Jethann needs me, he’ll yell.” She glances at Anders, who’s busy frowning at his phone, and veers the conversation away from her work ethic. “What’s wrong, sweet thing? Girl troubles? Boy troubles?”

Anders flinches and sets his phone down. “Ah, no. Neither. Sorry if I’m being rude.”

“Oh, you’re fine, but you look a little down. Do you want me to sit on your lap instead?” she asks.

Hawke can’t help his scowl in the waitress’ direction, but Merrill pouts and hugs Isabela’s waist tighter. “No, you’re nice and warm, you can’t leave,” she says, and Isabela grins at her, smooching her cheek and wiggling.

“I think I’ll manage without such excitement,” Anders says wryly. He brushes stray hair out of his eyes, and sighs in resignation when her focus is still on him. “I’ve just been trying to find a place to live, and it’s not going well.”

The blond relays his woes in apartment hunting and not having anything saved for a deposit. As Merrill makes reassuring noises and offers to help him look over the weekend, Hawke’s mind flicks over how he has an empty bedroom, and probably wouldn’t mind in the slightest seeing the blond every day. The logical part of his brain quickly overrides his daydream; _precarious_ doesn’t even begin to describe that sort of impulsive offer. He firmly clenches his fingers around his pint glass and takes a drink to settle himself.

And then Fenris speaks for him. “Hawke, are you doing anything with your spare bedroom?” he asks casually, as if he doesn’t know he’s heralding Hawke’s doom; at least his friend is offering him a choice in the matter, as he could now easily lie.

All eyes at the table turn to him (Varric even stills his typing), and he swallows, hoping he’s not blushing. “Uh… no?” he offers, then clears his throat, figuring that he may as well own this terrible decision. “I’m not using it, actually.”

Anders looks equally startled by Fenris’ question, starts to protest with a “That’s not necessary…” but Isabela claps her hands excitedly. “Oh, perfect! Hawke lives right around the corner, you could walk to the bar.”

“He has a lovely house,” Merrill agrees. “You can ask Fenris because he lived with Hawke for years.”

“And I’m sure it beats living in Darktown,” Varric adds, hands folded under his chin, now wholly invested in the conversation. “Either way, it’s a good deal, you’d just have to put up with Hawke and his beast of a dog.”

“Hawke is literally right here and able to speak for himself, thanks,” Hawke grumbles.

“Then speak up,” Fenris insists. Isabela gives him meaningful eyebrows from Merrill’s lap.

Hawke turns to Anders and shrugs, then tries for an easy grin. “Okay, so basically all that is true, I guess. I’m pretty laid back and I wouldn’t bug you or get into your business or whatever. If you need a place to live, I can help out.” The blond looks like he’s going to protest again, and Hawke quickly adds, “Or you could just crash for a few months while you look for your own place, no worries.”

Anders taps his fingers against his water glass, obviously embarrassed at being put on the spot. “It’s… that’s very generous of you. I don’t want to be a bother, though.”

“You wouldn’t be. If I can deal with Fen grumping around the place and setting the oven on fire, I can handle anything.”

“The oven wasn’t _on fire_ ,” Fenris snaps. “The item inside of it was, there is a difference.”

“Semantics,” Hawke says with a wave of his hand, then grins at Anders. “He had a learning experience with the ‘broil’ setting.”

Anders smirks hesitantly. “That’s why I stick to a microwave.”

“I’ve lit one of those on fire,” Merrill says solemnly. “But it was worth it, the tinfoil looked so _pretty._ ”

Hawke snorts; he has no idea sometimes when Merrill is serious, or just keenly aware of how to defuse a situation. The tension eases, the big question of Anders’ living arrangements set aside in favor of reminiscing about kitchen disasters. At the end of the night, Hawke invites Anders to come over with Fenris, since they’d already planned to hang out, and it serves as a good excuse to let the man see where he might be living. Anders agrees after hearing Fenris’ assurances that he can drive him home if the buses stop running, and the three leave shortly before midnight.

* * *

The townhouse is part of a group of identical stucco buildings off a sidestreet near the bar. Anders eyes the trees around the property appreciatively, and Hawke leads him and Fenris inside, shooing his eager dog away from the door.

“Calm your shit, you know both of them,” he says, and Anders holds his hand out for Barkspawn to sniff. The dog butts his head against it, wagging his tail. “See? Friends. I’m going to let him out real quick, make yourselves at home.”

Fenris flops onto an armchair, pulling out his phone, leaving Anders to fend for himself. He feels awkward being in someone’s home without them present, so he just looks around the space. It’s warm and modest, with large windows and a high ceiling. There’s a bookshelf crammed with an assortment of novels and comics, and an acoustic guitar and digital piano in the corner that he eyes with interest. 

Hawke comes back in, and the dog immediately curls up in his bed next to the bookcase. “So, yeah. You want a quick tour?” he asks, gesturing around. 

“Would rent include being able to play your piano?” Anders replies.

Hawke grins. “Sure, it’d be nice if someone got some use out of it.”

They go through the galley kitchen (mostly clean but obviously well used) and upstairs to Hawke’s spare room, which just holds his desk and a couple of cardboard boxes. “I’ll move the desk downstairs, there’s space enough for it. Also bathroom, across the hall. I’ve got my own, so that’s convenient, yeah?” 

Anders nods. It’s big enough to fit his furniture, and his only concern would be blocking out the light from the windows so he could sleep. “It’s good. Great, really. I mean, it’s a nice place.” He can’t help but sneak a look into Hawke’s open bedroom from the hall, the unmade bed and random clothing bits on the floor somehow comforting. Intruding on someone’s space was one thing, but having said person be a clean-freak had potential to make it unbearable. 

They come back downstairs, and Hawke waves for Anders to sit on the couch. “You wouldn’t have to worry about the dog, either, he’s my burden to bear. Might cuddle if you leave your door open when you sleep, but that’s all. Would it work for you?”

“It would, depending on what you’d ask for rent.” Anders wants to ask about bringing in Pounce, but he figures he shouldn’t press his luck.

Fenris looks up from his phone, catching Hawke’s apprehensive glance in his direction. “I paid you 400 last year,” the man answers. 

Hawke nods. “Good, yeah. That’s fine.”

Anders blinks in surprise, because there’s no way he can turn down that offer; that’s half of what he’s currently paying for his Darktown shithole. “Are you sure? I mean, that’s really generous…”

The brunet waves his hand. “The place is paid off, I just do bills and taxes and shit. I’d use your money for food,” he says with a smirk. “We can negotiate it if you want, but don’t worry about it.”

Half of him wants to agree right away, but he decides that he should sleep on it, just in case. Hawke seems nonchalant and friendly about the whole thing, which is reassuring, and Anders relaxes as Hawke sits on the other end of the couch while Fenris sets up the Playstation. The two of them play some ridiculous fighting game, and Anders declines a chance to join in.

“I’d only hit buttons randomly until something happened,” he jokes.

“That’s the entirety of Hawke’s skillset,” Fenris comments, as he unleashes a brutal combo on Hawke’s character that wins him the match.

Hawke pouts. “Sometimes it works.”

The two continue verbally sparring as the game goes on, with Hawke turning to Anders and rolling his eyes or giving an incredulous expression during the commentary. It’s comfortable and nice, feeling included despite not being in the game, and Anders doesn’t even feel the need to check the time until Fenris announces he’s tired. Anders trades mobile numbers with Hawke, promising to let him know within the next couple of days if he’s going to take him up on the offer. 

The ride back to Darktown with Fenris is mostly silent, Anders assuring him that the cigarette smoke doesn’t bother him. He almost asks Fenris for one himself. The white-haired man drops him off with a parting comment. “Hawke’s trustworthy,” he says, flicking his cigarette butt into the street. Anders waits to see if there’s more, but Fenris just shrugs, and the blond thanks him for the ride.

* * *

After Anders and Fenris leave, Hawke lets Barkspawn out one last time and starts getting ready for bed. He can’t help but wonder if he’s making a terrible mistake in inviting Anders to live with him, but he reasons that he’s helping out a friend, and if it doesn’t end up working out, Anders can still look for his own place after he moves in. _What’s the worst that could happen?_ he asks himself, then regrets it immediately when he thinks of every possible scenario that involves embarrassing himself in front of his crush.

No. Not “crush.” _Roommate._

“Shit,” Hawke says aloud. He can’t think of Anders as anything more than a friend, the man’s going to be living with him, and he doesn’t want to make anything more awkward than it has to be. Hawke will just have to cope with seeing Anders every day: cooking, doing chores, hanging out platonically and watching TV like he does with Fenris. Anders sitting on the couch next to him, possibly without a shirt on, his hair loose, gold strands falling across his bare shoulders, raising a hand to brush it out of his eyes, licking his lips…

_Fuck._

Hawke snaps his fingers at Barkspawn and points to the door, the dog slinking out of the room and huffing as Hawke closes it behind him. Stripping the rest of his clothing off, he lies back on the bed and closes his eyes, letting his thoughts wander. He’s going to have to get this out of his system before Anders moves in. He’s already fucking half-hard at just the thought of the blond shirtless on his couch with his hair down, which is pretty ridiculous, really. 

Mental beratement doesn’t stop him from spreading his legs as one hand trails low to cup his balls, squeezing gently, tugging a bit as he imagines _Anders giving him a soft, coy smile as he moves closer on the couch, until Hawke can feel the heat of his breath, elegant hands sliding down Hawke’s chest and lower, lower, Anders’ mouth close to his, lips parting with a soft moan as he feels Hawke’s cock through his jeans…_

Hawke’s other hand wraps around his shaft, stroking steadily; part of him wants to draw out the fantasy, but it’s been too long since he’s jerked off properly without just using the act for stress relief, and his mind’s spinning with images of the blond now that he’s granted himself permission to give in.

_Anders on his knees in front of him - wait no - Anders kneeling on the couch, hips arched enticingly as he bends down and takes Hawke’s cock into his mouth - wet lips and heat - long fingers wrapping around the base as he tongues the head, a breathy moan as Hawke’s hands thread through his hair, pulling - no - just tangling, feeling the softness against his fingers as Anders’ head bobs, amber gaze meets his - such lovely eyes - Hawke thrusts up and he moans again around Hawke’s cock - sucking hard - so good - doesn’t stop takes him deeper until he gags hand stroking faster oh he wants it wants Hawke to come in his mouth oh fuck yes -_

Hawke’s orgasm hits him so hard he’s winded afterwards, left blinking at the ceiling, dazed and sticky. His sigh turns into a groan as the logical part of his brain resurfaces, interrupting his relaxation with guilt. _It’s fine,_ he tells himself, _I just needed that, what Anders doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and it won’t happen again._

After cleaning up, he lets Barkspawn back in, the dog immediately jumping onto his place on the bed, and Hawke slides under the covers and snorts when a paw rests against his back. “Thanks, buddy,” he mumbles. At least his dog doesn’t judge him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started throwing the Chapter songs in the top notes, I figured that worked better for people wanting to listen while they read, if they want? *shrug*
> 
> Well at least I was right in that this chapter didn't take two months, it took THREE. Special thanks to [delicate_mageflower](http://archiveofourown.org/users/delicate_mageflower/pseuds/delicate_mageflower) for being encouraging and giving me a shoutout on her podcast <3 I built Hawke's townhouse in Sims 4 because I'm a huge nerd, and I might post the screencaps on the tumbls if there's interest. I've also built the monstrous playlist for this thing, and I'll probably post that around 100 kudos or something. Or when I remember to.
> 
> As always, thanks to Mevi for beta'ing. Visit me on [tumblr](http://un-shit-yourself.tumblr.com) to see what else I scream about.


	9. New Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders gets a change in scenery, sweats nervously, and reaps some of the benefits to having a roommate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to [Legoprime](http://legoprime.tumblr.com) because they're the bee's knees. Chapter title and lyric exerpts from [New Resolution](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0G6V2Wo3t5U) by Azure Ray.

Anders picks a three-day weekend to move into Hawke’s townhouse. The process consumes his focus - donating most of his possessions, except for his bed, dresser, and the table he uses for a desk, asking Alistair to lend a hand, packing the few items remaining carefully into boxes. He knows he’d psych himself out if he loses focus.

Monday morning arrives and though Anders hasn’t slept (swapping schedules is difficult even with advanced planning, and he’s too nervous to nap) he’s wide awake. Alistair’s truck has room enough that they only need one trip, and Anders doesn’t look back as they drive off. He’s gone over all of the worst-case scenarios with moving in with Hawke so many times that he’s finally numb to them, refusing to dwell on his worries of ruining what friendship he’s built with him. Besides, anything has to be better than that lonely, shoebox apartment he had before. Part of him is also excited that he’ll be in Lowtown, closer to friends and the Hanged Man, and the importance of the fact that he’s actually looking _forward_ to a change, for once, isn’t lost on him. 

Fenris greets them at the door. “He’ll be down in a moment,” he says gruffly, and steps aside to let Anders in.

“Alright. Thanks for helping,” Anders replies. His hands instinctively go to his pockets to find something to occupy himself in the face of small talk, and he runs his thumb over the plastic bead he pocketed from his walk home last night. He isn’t quite sure that Fenris even likes him at all, so he struggles for something else to say. Luckily, he doesn’t have to worry about a topic, as Alistair speaks enough for both of them.

“Morning!” he says cheerfully, offering his hand to Fenris, which the white-haired man takes after a moment of hesitation. “Nothing like lifting heavy objects to help friends, am I right? Alistair Therin. Nice to meet you.”

“Fenris,” the man replies, and if the clipped tone is registered, Alistair brushes right over it and continues saying whatever comes to his mind.

“Ooh, that’s a neat name! Sounds a bit fierce. Nice to meet you, anyway. This is a good place, a much bigger improvement than that old box Anders lived in before, and there’s a _puppy outside_ , why didn’t you tell me Hawke had a dog!” He grins, watching the dog for a moment before running eagerly over to the back porch where Barkspawn is sequestered. Alistair laughs and opens the door to poke his head out, the dog bouncing around behind the glass at the attention. “What a good boy! Who’s a good boy? You’re just as big as Lion except he’s got different markings around the eyes, but you’re still so handsome, yes you are!”

“Well,” Anders says, but can’t think of anything to add.

“Your friend is an idiot. He and Hawke will get along swimmingly,” Fenris supplies. 

“I heard that,” says a voice from upstairs, and Hawke descends a moment later to make a face at Fenris. He has a red bandana around his head to keep his dark hair out of his eyes, and wears a black sleeveless shirt with _Really Big Pianist_ emblazoned on it in. And Maker, Anders has no idea how something so innocent as bare arms could be so suddenly attractive - but there they are and there he is, staring at Hawke’s biceps and other muscles whose names currently escape him from his anatomy lessons, the man’s arms possibly larger around than his thighs. 

The first thought that crosses his mind is the alarming _I bet he could throw me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing at all._ Simultaneously, he wonders if Hawke was always so solidly built and then baulks. Why in the Void does he have to notice this _now,_ at probably the most inopportune time ever?

Anders’ hand clenches in his pocket as he stares, and he doesn’t realize he’s staring until he hears Hawke say his name again. He looks up to meet his uncertain smile. “You alright?” Hawke asks.

“Yeah, sorry… not awake yet,” Anders replies, clearing his suddenly dry throat. He realizes Fenris is looking at him pointedly, and he braves a glance in the man’s direction in time to see him roll his eyes and head to the door, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath.

Alistair stops riling up the dog and greets Hawke, the two of them instantly bonding over their shared love for large, slobbering creatures. They continue to compare their pets’ antics as they move Anders’ belongings into the townhouse, and Anders scolds himself for fixating on Hawke’s arms as the two larger men carry in his dresser. _Honestly, you’re too old for this_ , he thinks, and determinedly picks up a box of textbooks and lugs it inside, ignoring the strain on his back.

It doesn’t take long for Alistair’s truck to get emptied, and the men retire to the living room while Anders orders pizza in thanks for their assistance. Alistair and Hawke are on the couch with Barkspawn between them, the dog happy to be fawned over. Fenris sits with his legs crossed on the floor and gestures for Anders to take the armchair when he returns, stating that he doesn’t need it.

“I’m glad that didn’t take long. Thank you,” Anders says. 

“No problem,” Hawke answers. Barkspawn’s rear legs are folded in his lap, and he pats the dog’s belly absently. “Could use the exercise, and you didn’t have as much baggage as I thought.” The man visibly winces even without Fenris’ sharp glare in his direction. “Sorry, wow, that... is not how I meant that to sound.”

“It’s fine, I understood what you meant.” He still looks down at his lap, cheeks burning, and there’s a beat of awkward silence before Fenris takes the edge off.

“Hawke’s in it for the food, anyway,” Fenris says, and Hawke rolls his eyes. 

“Helping out a friend is reward enough,” he intones seriously. “And I’ll help again when Anders inevitably gets tired of putting up with my shit.”

The blond waves a hand. “I used to live with Alistair, I think you’ll be fine in comparison. Assuming you don’t sing pop music in the shower, too.”

“I could start,” Hawke says, grinning.

“I’ll have you know my wife finds it endearing,” Alistair huffs. 

“Maybe not ‘endearing’ so much as ‘resigned to her fate,’” Anders counters.

The man puts a hand to his chest indignantly. “Stabbed in the back, after all we’ve been through together. Just for that, Pounce is staying with us.”

“Even though he knocks stuff onto the dog?”

“Who’s Pounce?” Hawke asks, and Anders realizes he’s made a mistake in letting the conversation go this far.

“Anders’ cat. We’ve been watching him since his old place wouldn’t allow pets” Alistair looks at Anders, who’s trying to subtly make a “kill” gesture with his hand next to his throat, which is picked up too late. “I thought he’d be… oh.”

Hawke looks between the two of them, then realization dawns across his face. “Oh. You wanted to bring your cat?”

Anders winces and picks at his pizza crust. He shrugs, not looking up as he speaks, “I, um. I didn’t want to bring it up, actually. I figured you and Hari could still watch him for me.” He gives Alistair a pointed look and watches while Alistair mouths the word sorry to him, then takes a drink of his beer to avoid answering the question.

Hawke looks at Barkspawn appraisingly. “Well, we’ve never had him around cats before, but…”

“Lion loves Pounce, but he’ll have nothing to do with the dog. He’s a good cat, though,” he says readily, placing a napkin between his beer bottle and the coffee table, still mindful of his wife’s wrath even if she’s not present. “And I’m _not_ a cat person like Anders and Hari are, and I still think so.”

“I didn’t want to assume anything or, you know. Take advantage of your generosity,” Anders admits.

Hawke scoffs. “Hey, it’s not like you’re staying free, you’ll be paying rent and that means you can ask for your cat to be here. I think we should maybe have a trial run first, though? Just in case.”

“Sure. I can bring Pounce over whenever you want.” Alistair wiggles his eyebrows at Anders and pats Barkspawn’s head. “Don’t worry boy, the big mean kitty is a lightweight. Might want to avoid sleeping around coffee tables, though.”

Anders is torn between excitement at being reunited with his precious cat again, and anxiety that he’s intruding on Hawke’s home. But the man seems alright with the prospect, if a bit understandably hesitant about his dog’s reaction. 

There’s another anxious moment when Alistair asks what plans Anders has for his birthday next week, and when he replies with “Work,” both he and Hawke make the same face. 

“That’s not fun, we should do something,” Hawke says, and Fenris raises an eyebrow from behind his phone. “Er, I mean. You. Should do something. If you want?”

Anders shakes his head, chest tightening. “Really, I’ll manage.”

“Maybe you should stop ‘managing,’ and go enjoy yourself,” Alistair says, somewhat gently. And that’s almost worse, so Anders just makes a noncommittal noise and changes the subject back to something safe.

After Alistair and Fenris leave, Hawke offers to help him unpack, but Anders declines so that he can escape for a bit and collect himself. He doesn’t get far in unboxing his possessions but does manage to get his bed set up, which he collapses onto afterward to stare at the ceiling, reliving the entire awkward day, and somehow manages to pass out for a couple of hours.

His phone vibrating next to his ear wakes him with a jump, and he fumbles with it, only dropping it on his face once.

**5:59PM Hari:**  
_\- Alistair said you’re doing nothing for your birthday and that’s garbage_

**6:00PM Hari:**  
_\- If you don’t pick something, i will_

**6:04PM Me:**  
_\- Can’t i pick “sleep”?_

**6:06PM Hari:**  
_\- No_

**6:07PM Hari:**  
_-Something fun that i can pay your way for and shut up because 1. I’m gonna 2. You need it_

Anders sighs and taps out _I’ll get back to you on that_ , ignoring the half dozen frowny-faces he receives in reply as he cycles between Facebook and Reddit for anything interesting. 

His growling stomach breaks him from his internet cycle. It makes him realize that he hasn’t eaten in hours, and he decides to brave the unfamiliar setting and take his assorted instant meals downstairs to hide them in the kitchen. Music floats upstairs as he opens his door, the song recognizable as he descends. 

_Don't undermine_  
_My new resolution_  
_Just to find_  
_different light a new direction_

Azure Ray seems an odd choice for a man like Hawke, but then again, Hawke seems to have an eclectic taste. Further evidence of that fact are the other songs on the playlist, which include Daft Punk and Andrea Bocelli. Anders looks at the bookshelves next to the stairs that contain a healthy mix of graphic novels and literature that he’d noticed on his first visit, and then at the various videogame and movie themed paraphernalia scattered amongst actual modern home décor. 

_Hawke_ is an odd man, from his ridiculously-named dog (currently taking up the entire couch, tail thumping when Anders looks at him) to his questionable shirt choices. And then Anders’ mind begins going down a cursed route involving muscled arms and what else Hawke might have a taste in (or taste _of_ ) and Anders nearly slaps himself in the face, or would if he wasn’t holding bags of cheap noodles. Instead, he shakes his head, gives Barkspawn a chagrined look, and takes his food to the kitchen.

_Move on, move on_  
_Now the records skipping_  
_I won't forget, I won't forget the way you said_  
_Move on, move on_  
_There's no point in waiting_

Hawke stands at the stove, stirring a bowl with a whisk as butter melts in a pan. Anders notices that he’s changed into a regular teeshirt, and has to bite the inside of his cheek when he finds himself in no way disappointed. Hawke looks up and grins. “Hey. You weren’t asleep or anything, were you? Sorry.” 

“No, just resting.” Anders gestures with the bags. “Do you have a place I can put these? It’s food for work.”

“There should be room in the pantry, go ahead.” Hawke nods his head towards the pantry door, and Anders slides it open, blinking in surprise at the range of goods. “Just shove stuff aside, really. I should have cleared out space for you and I didn’t even think of it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I don’t need much room.” Everything about the man was eclectic, apparently. Anders moves boxes of pasta and a jar of lemon curd out of the way, and stacks his noodle cups in the back of the shelf, but not before Hawke peeks at his groceries.

“Surely that’s not all of it,” he says. “I mean, chili flavored ramen isn’t bad, but…”

Anders laughs self-consciously. “I don’t really cook.”

“Well, good thing I’m making dinner then,” Hawke responds cheerfully, and starts adding potatoes and onions to the butter in the pan. 

Anders doesn’t know what to say to that. His first reaction when offered anything is to decline, even if he shouldn’t; that whole ‘charity case’ thing that he fears being associated with. But his stomach is empty and whatever Hawke is doing looks (and smells) delicious, and he can’t deny that his chili ramen seems exceptionally unenticing now that he’s faced with actual sustenance.

Hawke takes his silence as a dismissal, and his grin fades as he clears his throat and hastily says, “It’s no big deal, I was cooking anyway and it’s just frittata. If you don’t want any, no harm.”

The last thing Anders wants is for Hawke to think that he’s unappreciative. “No, it’s very generous, it’s just… I’m feeling a bit spoiled.”

“Pfft, you’re living here now,, right? I always end up making too much anyway and eating it all myself.” Hawke pats his belly as emphasis. “And if you’re feeling spoiled, you can do the dishes after. How’s that for even?”

“I’d be a fool not to accept that,” Anders replies, smiling at Hawke’s responding grin, and lowers his eyes to watch the man’s hands because looking too long at his face feels a bit like staring into the sun.

They eat in front of the TV, with Barkspawn getting some of the crispier bits because Hawke got distracted with his multiplayer match in _The Warden 2_ and forgot about the pan in the oven, and despite Hawke’s apologies at it being overdone, Anders still thinks it’s the best thing he’s eaten all week. “I’m officially spoiled now, I can never go back to noodles,” he laments, and Hawke laughs triumphantly.

* * *

When Anders gets the nerve later that night to open the fridge, he finds the leftovers in a container, a post-it note affixed to the lid stating _FOR WORK :D_.

Jowan watches jealously as Anders eats it cold at the nurse’s station on his next shift, until the blond has enough of him looking like a sad puppy and gives him half.

* * *

The container is in the sink when Hawke gets up, the post-it now on the fridge with “Thanks” written under Hawke’s smiley face. He grins at the note and starts mentally meal planning for the rest of the week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT IT UPDATED.
> 
> Sorry for everyone who's been waiting for more of this, my personal life increased in size by one tiny person and that severely limited the amount of time I could spend on this. There's also been a lot of stress lately, aside from (and because of) all that. I just want to let you all know that I am totally going to stick with this thing though and it will be finished eventUALLY.
> 
> Also, I'm going to post the screenshots from Sims 4 of Hawke's house on the blog, and I'll be posting the soundtrack I made on Spotify for this too. Very soon.
> 
> Come follow me on [Tumblr](un-shit-yourself.tumblr.com) to see what else I scream about.


	10. Don't Stop Believin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders is reunited with an old friend, Hawke gets his crown back, and the boys finally combine forces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Mnemo for beta’ing this chapter. This chapter is dedicated to escapismaddict for their marvelous comments that urged my procrastinating ass to get on with it and finish writing this chapter.
> 
> Lyric credits:  
> Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey.  
> It’s My Life by Talk Talk.

Hari drops off a very annoyed Pounce on Wednesday evening. She uses it as an excuse to get a “tour” of the house from Hawke while Anders takes the cat carrier up to his room, heart racing with excitement. It’s been two years since he’d properly had Pounce living with him, and he hopes above all else that he’s not treated as a stranger; he doesn’t think he could survive it.

Pounce stops his yowling once Anders sets the carrier on the bed, and his hand is shaking a little as he unlatches the door. “Hey grumpy-puss,” he says in a sing-song voice. “Long time, no see.” A fluffy orange head pokes out hesitantly, eyes wide. Pounce sees him and lets out a wary noise.

Anders stifles his fear and holds his open hand out for the cat to inspect. There’s a tentative sniff and an ear flick before Pounce butts his head against Anders’ fingers. Relief washes through him and he sighs, scratching the cat’s chin.

“Missed you too, brat,” he says quietly; he doesn’t care if it’s ridiculous to feel so overwhelmed, he’s been through too much with his cat at his side and missed that companionship _so much_ , he felt guilty and awful having to give him up, even if it was to Hari.

There’s noise on the landing outside his door, and a hesitant tap. “Everything good?” Hari calls.

“Yeah, you can come in,” Anders replies, wiping his eyes quickly. Hari shuts the door and sits on the bed, Pounce circling between the two of them for pets as he sniffs Anders’ bedspread.

“Seems like a nice setup,” Hari says. “Hawke’s dog seems a lot like Lion, so I don’t think they’ll have a problem getting along.” She runs her hand along Pounce’s back and turns the motion into a reassuring pat to Anders’ arm. “You alright?”

There’s a lot to unpack in that question; he knows she can mean anything from ‘with living here’ to ‘in general’, but he goes with the surface meaning. “I’m glad to have him back.”

Hari smiles and snorts when Pounce’s fluffy tail hits her in the face. “Good, you two belong together. I’m going to miss him, but maybe now I can persuade Alistair to get a cat. I’ll tell Tamlen to act appropriately sad about missing Pounce, too, so we can attack him from both sides. He’ll give in eventually.”

“I’m sure that’ll work well for you,” Anders says dryly.

“Has so far,” she replies, grinning.

* * *

 

After Hari leaves, Barkspawn and Hawke sit on the stairs watching the shadows under Anders’ bedroom door, Anders making reassuring noises interspersed between cooing and baby-talk (which Hawke finds irredeemably cute), and the dog whines and nuzzles Hawke’s shoulder. “It’s fine,” Hawke says, scritching Barkspawn’s ears. “The mean kitty won’t hurt you.”

“I heard that,” Anders calls out, then says quietly, “Don’t worry, you can totally beat up that dog. Yes you can.” Pounce meows in reply, and Anders raises his voice for Hawke to hear. “You can go ahead and bring him closer, he's by the door.”

Hawke lifts his hand from Barkspawn’s back and the dog jumps up to the landing, sniffing under the door eagerly. A furry orange paw swings out with a hiss, and Barkspawn recoils, then sinks down and wags his tail like it's a fun new game, and Hawke laughs. “Now he wants to play. Good dog!”

“That figures. I'll come out in a minute.”

Barkspawn sniffs the door again before following Hawke downstairs, where he promptly lays on his bed with a huff. “You'll meet your new friend soon, boy,” Hawke says consolingly, and heads into the kitchen to finish cooking. Hari’s cat delivery had briefly interrupted his dinner process, and he’s eager to get back to work.

Anders appears as he’s flipping the last tortilla, hair tied back and looking more cheerful than Hawke’s ever seen him. “It'll take some getting used to, but I think it'll go well. I'll keep the door shut for the next few days, just in case.”

“Sounds good. Maybe they'll even be friends.”

“I’d be happy to just have them be ‘not-enemies’.”

“Are you saying you _don’t_ want Pounce to ride around on Barkspawn’s back?” He grins when Anders laughs, and spreads a handful of cheese onto a tortilla.

“Let's start small, don't want to get our hopes up.” Anders looks like he wants to say something else, then focuses on the stove instead. ”Don’t they sell these pre-cooked? This seems like a very involved process.”

“You say that, but it's worth it not to eat those garbage stale tortillas.” Finished, he slides the quesadilla onto a plate, then offers it to Anders. ”Try it.”

The blond hesitates, but only a little. “Just a small bit,” he says, tearing off a piece, and Hawke looks away before his roommate catches him staring, wondering how the hell someone can make eating look sexy. He turns his attention to making a second one, because he knows he's relinquished claim to the first; Anders has been constantly appreciative for the food he's been making the last few days. Hawke's been shrugging off his gratitude, but really he's pleased to be able to do something so basic to make Anders’ day better.

After Hawke waves off Anders’ apologies for stealing Hawke's dinner and takes the plate for himself, they move to the living room and settle on the couch. It's the first night that Anders has had off since the night he moved in, and Hawke's getting more comfortable having another person living with him again (He’s only had to stop himself from walking downstairs without pants on once). Anders is a quiet roommate, though; he’s usually asleep or at work, so the two of them having actual social time together is still new and, Hawke has to admit, somewhat terrifying.

He wants Anders to like him, and not so much in the romantic sense (honest), but more importantly as a friend. He’s been concerned lately that he’s been driving people away with his moods and his sorrows, and that people like Fenris and Isabela only talk to him still out of obligation; it would be nice to know that he can still be a likable and tolerable person if he tries hard enough.

That said, he doesn't quite know how to break the ice. He turns on Netflix in hopes that they can watch something and then just comment over it, not realizing that Anders gets presented with his viewing preferences right up front. Anders makes a surprised noise and nearly chokes on his food, and Hawke winces. “I can explain.”

“No, no, it's…” Anders looks over the array of cooking contest shows, martial arts movies, and alien conspiracy specials displayed under _Watch Again._ “It’s a very eclectic mix.”

“I hear that a lot,” Hawke says. “The conspiracy ones you can blame wholy on Fenris, we watch those and laugh at them. The kung fu movies are stupid fun. And, um. I really like food?” he finishes weakly.

“If it’s incentive to keep you making delicious things, then by all means, don’t let me stop you,” Anders replies with a half-smile.

It’s much easier to get comfortable with someone when there’s something else to discuss. Anders tells him highlights of his work week in between sharing comments on the challenges put to the contestants on the Great Ferelden Baking Show. Hawke doesn’t know half of what the contestants are making, but most of it looks delicious.

Anders evidently feels the same. One woman proudly displays a dozen perfect scones, the camera doing its best to show them in the most enticing light. “I’m going to commission you to make those,” he says.

“Done,” Hawke replies. “Hell, I’d do it for free. I can’t promise results like that, though.”

“Maybe it’ll be more of a recurring payment to help you get there.” Anders sets his empty plate on top of Hawke’s and tucks his legs up against himself.

“Could just pay me back by joining me on stage for Friday.” He doesn’t even consciously realize he’s serious about it, offering things up without thinking like he normally does, until he looks over to see Anders’ raised eyebrow, and he shrugs it off. “Or, you know, you don’t have to, obviously…”

The blond gives him an uncertain look. “Well, I… I would, if you wanted to. Are you sure?” There’s nuance there, as if he’s thinking about all the things that Hawke should have contemplated of before asking.

Hawke thinks about it. _I need to play because Bethany wanted me to keep going and I haven’t, I need to be good at something again, I need a distraction, I need something to look forward to at the end of the week, I want a chance to play again, I want the chance to play with you because you’re good and I think we’d fit professionally, I want something to be normal again._ It doesn’t take him long to decide, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and nods. “Yeah. It’ll be good to do it again. Something regular to look forward to, you know?”

Anders smiles faintly and nods. “I do know. How do you want to go about it?”

“Well, when it was me and…” He falters at saying Bethany’s name and a sudden spike of self-loathing rises up harshly, making him clear his throat. “In the past, we traded off who would sing for certain songs, but the other would do backup. I can do a good job at playing things by ear, otherwise I pull up the sheets and go from there.”

Someone’s substituted sugar for salt on the baking show, and they break conversation to chuckle at the judge’s face that just bit into a load of bizzaro-cake. “Is there a genre you’re more comfortable with?” Hawke continues. “‘Cos we can do it based on that. I know too many classic rock things and Bela makes me learn stupid pop hits for her.”

“That’s nice of you to cater to her whims,” Anders replies with a smirk. “I’d say probably 80’s songs, and some 90’s alternative to go back to my grunge days as a teenager.”

Hawke can’t help but raise his eyebrows as he does the math in his head, and then he can’t help asking “How old _are_ you?” He immediately regrets it when Anders blushes and he backtracks quickly. “I mean, _wow_ that came out terribly, good job Hawke. What I _meant_ was, you look only a little older than I am and I’m 28.”

“No, it’s fine, I’m sort of flattered you think so since I’m 34. And alright, I was more like a pre-teen than a full teenager, but I was a very edgy ten-year-old.”

“You have full reign to complain at me about ‘kids these days’ if it makes you feel better.”

Anders snorts, but his posture is relaxed. “If I had a yard, I’d tell you to get off of it.”

They brainstorm over a setlist for Friday, using Anders’ sheet music app for guidance, and Hawke’s excitement grows as he gets responses from Fenris via text about their ideas. Anders hasn’t played with anyone like they have, so he expresses his doubts again about bringing them down.

Hawke won’t have any of it, and is more confident about expressing it now. “First, stop saying that, and second, it’s all in fun. Fenris makes it up as he goes sometimes anyway, and no one either knows the difference or cares. As long as people are smiling, you’re doing your job.”

Of course, his pep talk to Anders still doesn’t stop him from frantically texting Fenris hours later as he’s distracting himself from sleep (or more like distracting himself from laying awake and staring at the ceiling), staying up on his computer while Anders plays games on his phone.

**2:59AM Me:**

_\- i’ve made a terrible decision oh god what am i doing_

_\- everything is going to suck and i’m going to be an ass and cry or some shit_

_\- fen pls_

**3:15AM Fenris:**

_\- Stop being an idiot and go to sleep_

_\- You’ll only be the same amount of ass you always are, no more._

**3:16AM Me:**

_\- that is oddly comforting thank you_

**3:17AM Fenris:**

_\- I do what i can_

Hawke says goodnight and trudges up the stairs, a bit less nervous than he was. Anders’ door is open part way, and he sees a large, fluffy, orange cat peeking out at him from under the bed, eyes glinting.

“Hey, kitty,” he says quietly, not wanting to alert Barkspawn, who he can hear snoring in his own bedroom. Hawke offers his hand to encourage the cat closer, and Pounce blinks his eyes slowly after a moment, then rolls over so his back is to Hawke.

“Ugh, cats,” Hawke mutters, mildly offended by the snub.

* * *

 

Hawke's not been this nervous since the first time he went on stage a few years ago, back when there was only one piano and Varric needed something to draw in patrons. It feels both different and like getting back into a routine all at once, and he tries his hardest not to compare each moment of preparation and planning with Anders as he remembered it with Bethany, but it’s inevitable. Bethany was never one to fidget, for starters; Anders’ foot taps anxiously as he and Hawke wait backstage for Fenris to arrive.

“Backstage” is little more than a storage area with some folding chairs, boxes, and old poker tables, tucked away from sight down a short hallway, giving the bar’s performers some time to collect themselves before heading on. Anders’ knee keeps bouncing as he scans the sheet music app once more, long fingers tapping patterns against his thigh. A little part of Hawke almost swooned to see Anders playing at his digital piano yesterday, the man so focused and relaxed as he played. Hawke had ruined it by praising him, of course, Anders brushing it aside and and standing stiffly, hands running through his hair in a nervous gesture.

_You can see who people really are when they're doing something they love,_ Hawke's dad had told him once. _Normally. everyone's got a mask on, but all that fades away when the music hits them just right. Play for a crowd and you'll see it in their faces, and your own._

Hawke doesn't know if he remembers how to let his own mask down anymore, but he saw a glimpse of Anders without one, and he's going to hold that image close for a while.

Fenris looks between them when he arrives and raises an eyebrow. “I thought this was supposed to be fun?” he asks.

Hawke brushes his hands on his jeans and shrugs. “Just nerves, he says, and Anders stands and stretches a bit, enough that his shirt slides up his waist, and Fenris has to snap his fingers at Hawke to get his attention. “Let's go,” he says.

The people in the bar notice the three of them come onstage, and there’s a sudden round of applause and whistling (and Bela whooping loudly) that Hawke can’t help but cheer up at. He waves to the crowd and approaches his piano, then realizes as Anders almost runs into him that he’s in the wrong spot (though Anders does put out a hand to catch himself and it rests on his back for a moment, so that’s something). He’s already run through the list of ways this could go wrong and is glad that ‘sitting at the wrong piano’ was on it. He’s trying to ignore any feelings, good or bad, associated with sitting down across from Anders; and it’s too early to replace “Bethany’s piano” with “his piano” in his head, so he simply pushes it all aside as he normally does, and gives what he hopes is a convincing smile at the crowd.

“So,” he says, “guess you’re stuck with both of us now.” That’s received with another round of applause and whooping, and Hawke catches Anders’ chuckle; it seems the bar’s reaction has done enough to act as both motivation and reassurance for the two of them, because the mood onstage is definitely lighter now. He doesn’t really know what else to say before they begin, though, so he shrugs and is about to ask Anders if he’s ready, but Mal’s pipe cleaner flowers are right in his line of sight and the question dies in his mouth.

Blue and red and purple and yellow petals, green stems, all twisted in whatever semblance of a flower that a kindergartner could create. And somehow not coated in dust, as they should be after six months, which means someone’s shaken them off recently. Probably Varric. Dust should be on the piano, too, but there isn’t any. There’s a searing, sudden pool of rage in his stomach that someone cleaned Bethany’s piano, that someone wiped away all traces of her fingerprints and her presence, and then just as quickly as it shows up, it turns into guilt at himself for sitting in _her place._

He hears Anders calling his name, mic pushed aside so it’s just for him, his brow furrowed. “Are you alright?” He doesn’t know how to answer that; he knows he’s not being reasonable, but now he’s stalling and they shouldn’t keep the crowd waiting and he might throw up, he’s not sure, hopes he doesn’t because that would figure, wouldn’t it? _What a great opening night to have, Maker._

Varric saves him, whether he knows it or not, by cupping his hands and yelling “Wait!” from his booth, making him jump and startling him out of his melancholy. Whatever noise in the room falls silent immediately. “Where’s the hat?!”

There’s confusion for a minute and then Fenris leaps from his drums, Anders looking bewildered and Hawke finally returning to himself enough to laugh nervously. “Shit,” he says, having forgotten all about the knit Avvar hat Bethany had made for him years ago, the one he wore on stage for fun. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all, there’s too much of her here to let go of.

But Fenris is back too quickly for him to flee, having found the hat (probably stashed above the bar with the good whiskey, if he knew Isabela) and presenting it to him almost ceremoniously. His voice doesn’t carry beyond the stage. “Time to take this back for yourself,” he says, and places the knit helmet on Hawke’s head, adjusting it so the horns are even.

There’s more cheering and applause, and Anders looks like he’s not sure whether he should laugh or not. Hawke doesn’t know whether Fenris’ words were the courage he needed or if the hat did the trick, but he stands and raises his arms triumphantly, flexing and receiving additional hollering from Isabela (“Attaboy, Tiger!”) and Varric (“Show off!”).

Hawke grins and looks at Anders, who seems to have recovered from his confusion, and nudges the mic back in place. “Do I get a hat, too?” he asks.

Returning to his seat, Hawke replies, “Only if you grow the beard for it,”

Anders shakes his head, smirking. “Can’t risk making your beard jealous.” He’s rewarded with more jeering from the audience and Hawke huffs dramatically.

“We haven’t even played yet and you’re already insulting my beard! This is terrible!”

“No, it’s perfect!” Varric yells, and the crowd seems to agree. Hawke huffs again, but winks at Anders, and starts playing their first song.

Anders nominated Hawke to go first, so he’d chosen something crowd-pleasing and relatively easy to start with. The weight of the hat on his head is familiar in a grounding sort of way, despite him being at a different angle to the stage than he’s used to, but with his focus now on playing, his despair from earlier gets pushed aside.

_Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world,_  
_She took the midnight train going anywhere_  
_Just a city boy, born and raised in South Rivain,_  
_He took the midnight train going anywhere_  
_A singer in a smoky room,_  
_A smell of wine and cheap perfume,_  
_For a smile they can share the night,_  
_It goes on and on and on and on..._

  The drums step in and Anders adds his voice to the first two words fo the chorus, and Hawke almost laughs because it’s _perfect_ and he’s loving it.

_Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard,_  
_Their shadows searching in the night_  
_Streetlights people, living just to find emotion,_  
_Hiding, somewhere in the night_

 The song progresses though the second verse, past the guitar solo transplanted to piano by Hawke, and he’s almost surprised by how much fun he’s having. The irony of the lyrics isn’t lost on him, either.

_Don't stop believing_  
_Hold on to the feeling_  


 It sounds like the entire bar is applauding at the end of the song, and Hawke couldn’t hide his grin if he tried. Fenris even has a smile as he waits for the nod from Anders when he’s ready. The blond brushes hair from where it’s fallen into his eyes and Hawke thinks _Oh dear_ because he’s realizing that he’s now going to be staring at Anders doing that all night from up close. Anders gives Fenris the signal to begin; he’d said this song was one of his favorites, and Hawke tries not to be distracted with his singing and miss his cue when he joins in with the accompaniment.

_Funny how I find myself in love with you,_  
_If I could buy my reasoning, I'd pay to lose_  
_One half won't do_  
_I've asked myself_  
_How much do you commit yourself?_

 Hawke’s nodding his head to the song and has to adjust his hat midway through since Fenris didn’t put it on tight enough, but it’s only a quick gesture that doesn’t break up the music. Anders doesn’t even notice; his eyes are closed while he sings, voice strong with the chorus.

_It's my life_  
_Don't you forget_  
_It's my life_  
_It never ends_

Anders doesn’t need Hawke’s help to carry the song, but he’s happy to provide it anyway, and once again the bar erupts into noise when the song completes. Hawke isn’t one for cliches, actively hates using them to be honest, but looking across the stage and meeting Anders’ smile just feels _natural_ , like there’s a real connection between them here, and maybe it’s just made up of music and friends and some mutual  personal insecurities, sure, but it’s a tangible one nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO YES I AM NOT DEAD. 
> 
> And more specifically, this fic is not dead. Still have every desire to see this through to the end, and I think cutting it down in chapters is going to be the best way to do that, and just timeskipping within the chapters themselves? (I initially thought ~25 but i’m not sure now, who knows lol) so I cannot in good conscience be like “I WILL UPDATE EVERY MONTH NOW” but I’m gonna try to update every month (at least)? because I need the story to be told. And also you’re all really great and <3\. Personal life stuff and mental health stuff is always in the way, but now we’re getting to the good bits that I’ve been looking forward to, so that’s also motivation.
> 
> Here’s a pic of Hawke’s [ Avvar](https://beardstyleshq.com/wp-content/uploads/parser/awesome-knit-viking-hat-with-beard-5.jpg) (Viking) hat, except his doesn’t come with the beard, obviously. I have a Sims 4 house layout that I wanted to post but I need to retake the screenshots cos I dunno where they went. Yay.
> 
> Also, I’ve got an official [Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/darthfenix7/playlist/74H3HhP0afgUdWiIE01ToC) for this fic, with all the songs so far and all the future ones I plan on adding in (it’s sort of chronological, in my head). Have fun guessing where those go, I guess :p
> 
> Also also, I made a crappy [aesthetic](http://un-shit-yourself.tumblr.com/post/171148561138/varric-looks-him-over-and-doesnt-comment-on-his) for the fic that you can look at, if you want. 
> 
> Visit me on [tumblr](http://un-shit-yourself.tumblr.com) to see what else I scream about.


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